


When the Floods Roll Back

by OffYourBird



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dramedy, F/M, Friends to Lovers, In fact he's not allowed anywhere near my S6, Joss has not been consulted, Season/Series 06, this is a no Joss zone, this is season 6 with 20lbs of sugar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: Buffy's back from the grave and finding that being alive - yet again - really isn't all it's cracked up to be. In fact, she'd like a refund. No, really; she could use the money.





	1. How It Started

**Author's Note:**

> I walk. I talk. I shop. I sneeze. I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back. There's trees in the desert since you moved out, and I don't sleep on a bed of bones.
> 
> \- Buffy, S4.22, Restless

It started when she found Spike in the basement just hours after Mr. I-Don’t-Care-If-I-Trash-the-Broke-Slayer’s-House M’Fashnik guy had added the finishing touches to the necessity of getting a full copper freaking re-pipe.

Buffy had finally managed to get a newly traumatized Dawn back to bed (they were really working hard on exploring all the fun ways her little sister could be scarred before the age of eighteen), and Giles was fitfully passed out on the couch, probably halfway due to his most recent concussion. Willow and Tara hadn’t been seen since shortly after their newest home invader made his grand entrance. Of all of the Revello Drive residents, the witches seemed to have the least amount of trouble sleeping.

Lucky them.

When three a.m. rolled around, Buffy was still wide awake in bed, staring at the very not-captivating ceiling and wondering if accepting donations for life saveage was an acceptable alternative to Anya’s business model of outright charging people. Or maybe she’d just burn down the house, after all. Fire was looking like a prettier option every minute.

Something loud and tinny sounded through the floorboards, jerking Buffy from her life of crime reverie. Something that sounded suspiciously like it originated from the basement. Great. With the way the last day had been going, chances were good that another pipe had just spontaneously decided to be expensive.

Buffy dragged herself out of bed with a groan.

She’d figure it out. Somehow. Since there really kind of wasn’t any other choice.

Inevitably, quietly throwing open the basement door and flicking on the light didn’t reveal any of the top ten scenes she expected. Instead, Spike and two loose-skinned demons were standing in the middle of the flooded floor, juggling something that looked suspiciously like a long length of copper pipe and staring at her like a trio of demonic deer into headlights.

Buffy worked to find her voice for a long moment, before finally hissing, “What the hell are you doing?”

The loose-skinned demons exchanged nervous glances and shifted backward, leaving Spike on the front lines. The vampire’s face was the epitome of innocence. Yeah, nice try on that one. It probably worked on people who didn’t know that he’d eaten his way through Europe, but between them? Major red flag. Major.

Buffy took a purposeful step down the stairs and firmly shut the basement door behind her—not breaking eye contact with her newest home invaders. “Hello, waiting on an answer here.”

Spike’s expression slid into careful neutrality as he lifted a brow. “I expect it’s exactly what it looks like, Slayer.”

Buffy took another threatening step downward. The loose-skinned demons stepped backward again. Spike held his ground, legs firmly planted in the water. His jeans, she realized, were rolled up just past his knees, and he was flashing an unusual amount of pale skin to the general public. A quick survey revealed his boots and socks sitting on top of the washing machine. Spike was barefoot in her basement. Weird. She descended another step. “Hmm. Well, it looks like you and two other demons–”

“This here’s Clem and his cousin, Greg,” Spike interrupted, jabbing a thumb behind his left shoulder, then his right.

The left demon—Clem, apparently—gave a timid wave. “Nice to meet you, Slayer. Heard lots.”

Buffy blinked in surprise. “Um. Hi.” She turned her attention back to Spike, a small rush of amusement tinting her irritation. “’Kay, so it looks like you and  _Clem and his cousin_  snuck into my basement and are attempting some OSHA unsanctioned version of my full copper re-pipe.”

Spike flashed her a quick grin. “See, Slayer? Exactly as it looks like.”

Buffy sighed, exhaustion bending down her shoulders. “Spike, I really don’t have the time or energy for this. You can’t possibly tell me you know the first thing about fixing pipes.”

Spike anxiously fiddled with the wrench in his hands. “Not the first,” he admitted, then quickly added, “But Greg here does. Bloke’s part of a union and everything.”

Bafflement wrinkled her nose. “A union?”

“Plumbers and Pipefitters Local 189,” Greg provided promptly, eyes apprehensively darting to her and back away.

Well, that was… unexpectedly legitimate. Her gaze zeroed in on the pile of suspiciously used-looking pipes scattered atop most of the unflooded surfaces. “So,” she said casually, “where’d you steal the piping from?”

Spike’s lips pursed. “Didn’t nick the pipes, Slayer. Knew you wouldn’t want them then. They’re from the place on Crawford.”

Was that supposed to ring a…. Her mouth parted in realization. “ _Angel’s_  mansion?”

Spike snorted derisively. “It was never his. Ol’ Angelus was squatting good and proper.” Seeing Buffy’s expression, he added, “It’s abandoned, luv. Was abandoned decades before I got there, and it’ll be abandoned for decades after.”

“Especially now, considering the lack of indoor plumbing,” Clem added reasonably.

“Especially now,” Buffy repeated dryly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Spike glared at her defiantly, blue eyes flashing. “You said you’re tight on dosh. I don’t have enough to give you to make a difference, but I happened to have a couple favors owed and a few good blokes around. So just get your pert little arse back upstairs and into bed, and let me handle this, alright?”

She should have probably refused him. Told him to get  _his_  butt out of the basement and leave this kind of job to someone who she’d have to basically sign over her first child to. A real professional who wasn’t a vampire and two nervous loose-skinned demons sneaking around in the dark.

But it was the first time anyone had really offered to fix something in her life—without just trying to fix  _her—_ since she’d come back out of the ground.

Buffy pivoted and headed back up the stairs. As she opened the door, she gave the surprised and relieved Spike a hard look. “If you screw up my house, you’re in charge of figuring out how to best commit fraud for the insurance money.”

Spike’s mouth twitched, though he wisely held in a smirk. “Won’t be a problem either way, Slayer.”

“Good.”

And that was that. Two days later, Spike and Clem and Clem’s cousin had supposedly fixed the basement, and pumped out all the water care of someone’s ‘borrowed’ pump. She hadn’t asked for details. Xander had warned her that she was clearly insane and that it would all end badly—in a nice way, of course—but saving eight grand was way worth the risk of being mayor of crazy town. And as it turned out, Clem’s cousin was pretty good at his job. Even Xander, who inspected the basement with a fine-tooth comb of skepticism and the zealous need to be right, finally admitted that everything looked acceptable.

After that, it just seemed natural to stop by Spike’s crypt and invite him over for dinner. Though apparently not to Spike, who nearly dropped the container of blood he'd just fished from his fridge, his face slack with astonishment.

“I’m not promising anything gourmet,” Buffy quickly added. “Because, you know, I’m ‘mostly can’t cook’ girl and Dawn is so not allowed in the kitchen for like a year after her little peanut butter and anchovies incident. It’s basically just going to be Chinese takeout with the gang.”

Spike recovered and sauntered toward her in that infuriatingly sexy way of his. “Buffy.” How did he manage to make her name sound so stupidly special? “I’ll be there as soon as you want me, for as long as you want me.”

Her eyes widened. Spike’s expression was casual, though the twinkle in his eyes told her he was fully aware of the  _other_  implications of that sentence. “Just be there at seven,” she mumbled, shaking her head and turning toward the door.

Dinner pretty much clinched things. Despite all the tensions in the room—half of which Buffy  _so_  didn’t even want to know about and half of which she wished she could forget—Spike somehow managed to slide right in and deflect a lot of the now constant ‘watch Buffy like a hawk to make sure she’s being normal’ attention. Mostly by heaping it right onto himself instead. To her silent amusement, it wasn’t all that hard. A few scathing comments about Xander’s manhood, a few compliments toward Tara, and a rousing argument about top 40 hits with Dawn managed to steal away most of the evening’s limelight.

It was magical.

It was also then somehow not a surprise at all when—three days later, after she’d mentioned her stresses about job searching—Clem’s cousin called her up, mentioning that he needed a new secretary for his plumbing company and managing to sound only half-terrified.

Buffy had promptly said yes and then sprinted over to Spike’s crypt, barreling straight down into the lower level with a snapped, “Just how many favors are you owed in this town?”

Spike sat up with a start, blinking blearily at her. To Buffy's complete embarrassment, she’d neglected to realize his corresponding complete lack of clothing. A bare, absurdly muscled chest drew her eyes as Spike ran a hand through his sleep tousled hair. “Greg get ahold of you, then?”

“Uh huh.” Wow, Spike had really pretty nipples for a guy.

“Eyes are up here, Slayer.”

Buffy flushed, lifting her gaze to catch Spike smirking at her. She composed herself with unfortunate difficulty. “So. Spill.”

“The favor? Wasn’t one I had.”

“Then how…”

Spike shrugged easily. “I just owe one now.”

Buffy stared at him, her throat tight with gratitude and unease. “Spike, you can’t keep…”

He rose imperiously, eyes flashing, the bed sheet wrapped thankfully around his waist. “Yes, I bloody well can!” He motioned helplessly toward her. “You said it was hard here, luv. So what’s the problem with someone helping it be a bit less hard?”

Buffy sighed. “The problem? The problem is…” God, she didn’t even know where to start.

Spike's expression hardened into angry hurt. “Oh, I see now. The problem is that the help's coming from me. Right. Got the message.”

“No.  _No_. It’s not that.” She rubbed her temples wearily. “Look. I should be able to handle this, okay?”

“This?”

“Life.”

Spike snorted. “Says who?”

Buffy waved her arms dramatically at the ceiling. “Everyone.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You mean everyone who doesn’t know you were in sodding  _heaven_.”

God, even hearing it hurt. She slumped against a dirt wall. “Shouldn’t it be easier this way?” she asked weakly. “I mean, it wasn’t like I have to get over a hundred years of torture. Just, you know, the whole perfect happiness, done forever thing.”

Spike stared at her incredulously. “Because that’s such a picnic by comparison.”

“Yeah, well...” Buffy huffed a sigh, then threw up her hands in defeat. “You know what, fine. It’s not like I’m doing so great on my own right now. So, go ahead. Gimme me jobs and free re-piping and”—Spike’s leer had her quickly backpedaling—“and that is  _not_ what I meant.”

An unfairly sexy chuckle rumbled through Spike’s bare chest. And ugh, how was Spike built like he belonged on a magazine cover?

“Just promise me one thing, Slayer,” he said softly, seriously.

She frowned warily, unable to keep out a trickle of disappointment. Of course Spike wanted something in return. Everyone else did, these days. Why should he break the mold? “What,” she said flatly.

“Tell me that we’re friends, yeah?”

 _Friends?_  Buffy almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. Did he not realize that he was pretty much the  _only_  friend she actually felt friend-like with these days?

The apprehensive look on Spike's face told her he didn’t. Her mouth curled up with wry amusement. “We’re definitely friends.”

Some kind of tension around his eyes that she hadn’t even noticed eased dramatically. He cleared his throat, unable to keep a pleased smile from his face. “Right. Good.”

Her frown returned. “You’re the only one I told about being– about heaven. How did you not know we were friends?”

Spike glanced away sheepishly and shrugged. “Figured you only told me because… because I didn’t matter. Dead man’s ear and all that.”

Horrified guilt flooded through her. He’d thought she was just using his presence as some kind of unliving soundboard. And he’d  _let_  her. “God, Spike, I know I’m struggling with this whole being alive again thing, but I’m not…” She held his gaze firmly. “I don’t use people like that.”

His lips curved into a crooked line. “I’m not ‘people,’ pet.”

Her eyes wandered down Spike's body of their own accord, and she was unable to help it when, “Sure look like people to me,” slipped from her mouth.

Spike’s tongue curled behind his teeth. “Wanna check all my parts and make sure?”

Buffy flushed but managed a severe, “Not a chance.” She shook her head, trying to put her brain back on track. Somehow this conversation had gone way off course. “Dawn told me, you know. About what you did this summer. The babysitter gig.”

Spike’s leer faded. “Did she now.”

Buffy took a steadying breath. “Before I… died, you helped a lot. Especially at the end. You did a lot of stupid crap, too, but you helped.”

Spike winced. “Yeah.”

“But there was always the chance of reward with me around.” When Spike’s expression turned offended, Buffy held up a hand to stave off the forthcoming objections. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying… once I was gone, that possibility was kaput.”

Spike flinched, and she couldn’t help but remember his words from right after she’d come back.  _Every night I save you_.

“What of it?” he whispered.

She took a step toward him, still leaving a good foot of space between them. “It means a lot. I just wanted to say thank you.”

Spike’s look of wonder nearly bowled her over. “You’re welcome,” he said faintly.

Buffy had intended to leave after that—conversation done, mission accomplished—but he sounded so grateful (and she was still reeling from the idea that he’d thought she didn’t care about him at all and had still re-piped her entire house) that she stopped before she’d even turned halfway back to the ladder leading upstairs. “Are you busy tonight?”

Spike shrugged. “Not really. Thought I might catch a hand of poker later, but it was just a passing inclination.”

“Well, um, if you’d rather watch really bad movies with Dawn and me at the house tonight, you’re welcome to come over.”

That look of wonder was back again, almost blinding. "That so." His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled. “I’d love to.”

“Good. And Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“Bring your own popcorn bowl. Dawn says you pour blood over your stuff, and I am  _so_  not dealing with bloody popcorn remnants in mom’s bowls.”

Spike grinned. “I’ll wash out anything I use, Slayer.”

Buffy regarded him narrowly. “Triple wash. With like half a bottle of soap.”

Spike snorted good-naturedly, his blue eyes soft and affectionate. “Consider it as good as done.”


	2. When It Should Have Been Weird

It should have been weird. The Slayer of Slayers was sitting on her couch pelting her little sister with pieces of popcorn whenever she wasn’t looking, to a chorus of Dawn’s lamp-breakingly shrill and completely affected indignancy. It nearly drowned out the sounds of  _Roadhouse_ playing on the TV in front of them—no doubt part of Spike’s diabolical plan.

The phone rang in between sisterly screeches, and Buffy rose from the armchair with a frown. Anyone she knew would likely just knock on the door over calling, and everyone else was already in residence (although the witches were out on a date and Giles was out doing… whatever Giles did on a Monday night).

“Summers residence,” she said automatically as she picked up the phone.

There was a small gasp followed by a breathless, “Buffy?”

Oh god. Angel.

She stepped back farther into the kitchen, keeping her voice low. “Hi, Angel.” She smiled shakily, even though he couldn’t see it. “So, an actual phone call, huh? What’s the occasion?”

She barely processed Angel’s surprised and slightly hurt response, or much of the conversation afterward, except to grasp the basics: he’d heard that she was dead and now… not so dead, and wanted to meet halfway between Sunnydale and L.A. Apparently, his one true love being back from the grave didn’t warrant a whole two hours of driving.

“I don’t have a license anymore,” she finally said. Her shakily won driving rights had lapsed after her death and it didn’t appear anyone had sent the Buffybot to renew that particular piece of her life. They’d waited for the real Buffy to return for all the fun things like government obligations and outstanding debts.

“Oh.” There was a disappointed pause. “I’m… I mean, things are crazy here, or else I’d just drive over all the way. Could… someone bring you?”

Buffy sighed and gripped the phone more tightly. Dawn and Spike’s laughter filtered in from the living room, and a burst of annoyance wound through her. It was the first night since she’d pulled herself out of her coffin that she actually felt like she might be able to manage real laughter, and now she was missing her opportunity. “Angel. Look. I’m really glad you called to check on me, but I’m fine. All with the breathing and above ground. We can get together another time. For now, let’s just… leave it at this, okay?”

Angel sputtered a little but eventually agreed. He hung up shortly thereafter, with a quick and—after an awkward silence—unanswered  _I love you_. She limply grasped the phone receiver as the dial tone buzzed through. Love? Was this love? Was this what she’d once thought love was? Could it even  _be_  love anymore when she didn’t even want to be in the same city with him? When she was pretty sure the girl he loved was still six feet under?

She hung up the phone and strode back into the living room.

Spike paused in his popcorn pelting upon seeing her likely tense expression. “Everything alright?”

She shrugged and leaned against the entryway wall, her eyes on the TV screen. Wesley and Dalton were squaring off in the club. “That was Angel. He wanted to meet with me in between here and L.A. tonight.”

Spike stilled on the couch—even his breathing cut short.

Dawn wrinkled her nose. “Between here and L.A.? Seriously? He couldn’t be bothered to come all the way here?”

Buffy shrugged. “He’s busy, I guess.”

A muscle was ticcing in Spike’s jaw. His fists clenched against his knees. “I can keep watch on Dawn until you get back,” he said with tight evenness. “Keep the nasties at bay.”

“I appreciate it.”

Spike nodded shortly, not meeting her eyes.

Buffy finished her return to the living room and slid back into the armchair. “And sometime, I’ll totally take you up on that. The babysitter part, that is.”

Spike’s head snapped up, his eyes clouded with confusion.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fourteen.”

Spike snorted, his eyes still glued questioningly on Buffy. “Harris’s past twenty and still needs a bloody sitter, Bit. Age’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Xander’s a demon magnet,” Dawn said with a huff, crossing her arms. “I’m not.”

“No, you’re just the Slayer’s little sis and some ancient sodding key.”

“Which means I’m totally awesome and can take care of myself. I know how to shoot a bow and everything.”

“Yeah, and the witches’ former feline knows that well, doesn’t she?”

“That was an accident!”

The familiar cadence of the argument made Buffy’s lips quirk. “Just how often have you two had this conversation?”

Dawn huffed again as Spike rolled his eyes. “Just about every bloody day this summer. You damn Summers women’ll die on just about any hill.” He paused, flinching. “Not that I meant–” He looked away from Buffy completely, waving an arm in her general direction. “Go on, then. Get all dolled up and see sweet Peaches. I’ll watch Dawn.”

The tense line of his shoulders was entrancing. After her inadvertent semi-nude viewing today, she now knew the truth of the muscles performing the action. “I said Angel wanted to see me. I never said I was going.”

Blue eyes darted back to her. “… No?”

“Nope.”

A slow, true smile parted Spike’s lips. He plucked the remote off the coffee table and turned up the TV volume. “Let’s finish watching this Swayze wanker then.”

Dawn pursed her lips. “He’s not a ‘wanker.’ He’s like super pretty. And he dances!”

“Different film, Bit.”

Buffy arched a brow at Spike and lifted her pointer finger in question. “Okay, first: you are a terrible influence. I know Dawnie didn’t know what ‘wanker’ meant this spring.”

Dawn snorted. “Oh, please. He’s said way worse things than that.”

Buffy’s brow drew higher and she kept her gaze on the increasingly uncomfortable Spike as she raised her thumb up to join her pointer finger. “Second: I will ignore that last statement if you tell me how you know about  _Dirty Dancing_.”

Spike grumbled and shifted in his seat as she hid a smile. “Harm wouldn’t stop prattling on about the damn film. Watched that sodding end scene for days and kept trying to get me and the minions to recreate it.”

A small giggle escaped her lips, so unexpected she almost didn't realize it was hers. “I would have paid good money to see that.”

Dawn bounced in her seat. “We should totally watch  _Dirty Dancing_  next!”

Spike groaned. “Stake me now.”

 

***

 

Dawn fell asleep halfway through  _Dirty Dancing_ , to Spike’s clear relief as he hit the pause button.

Buffy smiled through a yawn. “Seen enough of handsome, half-naked men tonight?”

Spike shot her a dirty look that shifted quickly to a sly smirk. “Could ask the same of you, luv.”

"Well, Dawn’s right,” Buffy said innocently. “Swayze is very, very pretty.”

Spike snorted derisively as he lifted Dawn into his arms. “Wanker’s full of sag and wrinkles nowadays,” he muttered as he headed toward the stairs.

Buffy stared bemusedly after him as he carried her sister away, and followed. When she reached Dawn’s bedroom doorway, Spike was tugging down the covers of Dawn’s bed. He settled her little sister under them and kissed her temple, a faint smile tugging on his lips as she gave a loud snorting snore. When he turned around to find Buffy standing in the doorway, he looked as if he’d forgotten she was even in the house.

“You’ve done this a lot. Put Dawn to bed,” Buffy murmured, stepping back into the hallway.

Spike followed her out into the hall, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him and tucking his hands into his jeans pockets with an uneasy shrug. “Sorry, pet. Didn’t mean to overstep. Just went on autopilot.”

“Dawn slept on the couch a lot this summer?”

Spike sighed at her disapproving tone, running a hand through his mussed hair. He kept it far less gelled these days, and rowdy curls were flowing down his forehead. Her fingers itched to run through them. “Bit kept getting nightmares and I was running up to her room from the couch at all hours.” He pursed his lips. “Didn’t look so good when the others kept finding me passed out by her bed in the morning, so I took to letting her tire herself out in front of the TV first. Seemed to do the trick most nights.”

Buffy frowned. “Why didn’t Willow or Tara help?”

Spike’s jaw clenched. “Witches weren’t around much.”

 _They were working on your resurrection_  was the unsaid statement. Ignoring the living to bring back the dead. Buffy slumped against the wall, all of the pleasant lassitude from their movie night fading. “I’m so…” Tears threatened and she shook her head, the words dying in her throat.

Spike stepped toward her, his expression concerned and his fingers reaching out for her without touching. “Buffy?”

“Tired,” she said finally. “I’m so tired, Spike. Tired of being mad at my friends. Tired of pretending I’m fine. Just… tired. I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the world to wake me up.”

Something flashed in Spike’s eyes and he was suddenly much closer, deep into her personal space, turning the humming presence of him on the back of her neck heavy and buzzing. She let him stay there. “Coming back to life’s no small feat, luv,” he said softly, daring to run his hands lightly up her arms. “You’ll get there. Just gotta get over the hangover first.”

Buffy snorted weakly. “Hangover? Are you really comparing being in heaven to going on a bender?”

Spike’s lips quirked. “Wasn’t it? Body was gone, Slayer—all you had was sensation. Euphoria, sounds like. That’s a helluva drug. And now your spirit and your body are a bit at odds. But they’ll sort things out.”

She almost unthinkingly leaned toward him as his hands slid over her shoulders and started pressing soothing circles against her upper back. “I hope you’re right.” She moaned as his fingers dug into a knot she’d probably had since before she’d gone to her grave. “If you keep doing that, I’m way more likely to believe you.”

Spike chuckled lowly. “Shall I become your personal vamp masseuse?”

“Mmm,” she mumbled, her eyes fluttering shut. “No complaints from me. Fair warning though, the pay’s garbage and the benefits are worse.”

“I beg to differ,” Spike said lowly, with an edge that made her drooping eyes snap open.

Oh god. She was practically in Spike’s arms. She drew in a sharp breath and stepped away from him as he looked at her uncertainly. “It’s late,” she said quietly.

Spike nodded, stuffing his hands back into his jeans pockets. “Yeah. Should be on my way. I’ll do another sweep of the cemeteries before I turn in. You get some sleep, Slayer.”

Fat chance of that. She swallowed down the urge to ask him to stay, instead forcing out a soft, “Thank you.”

Spike disappeared down the steps and out the front door without another word.

Tara and Willow came home a few minutes after Buffy had climbed into bed. The witches whispered and giggled in the hallway as they tipsily snuck back to their room. Giles came home shortly after. By three a.m., the household was full again and everyone seemed asleep.

Buffy stared at the ceiling, thinking of how Spike’s presence had chased her sister’s nightmares away.

Four a.m. found her sneaking out of her bedroom window and down the street in her pajamas, a stake in hand as she hurried to Restfield. Luckily, she only met one demon along the way—some weirdo who appeared as she was crossing the street and disappeared in a puff of smoke after only one punch. The cemeteries were all thankfully and literally dead. She opened Spike’s crypt door slowly and the vampire in question blinked owlishly at her from his armchair, a half empty bottle of whiskey in hand.

“Buffy?” He shot up from his seat. “Is everything alright?”

She shrugged helplessly, tugging at the hem of her pajama top. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Spike’s brow furrowed and he rubbed the back of his neck in clear confusion. “Right,” he said finally, and hefted the whiskey bottle. “Want a nip or two?”

“Spike, it’s four in the morning.”

“Yeah, so?”

Buffy bit her lip, warily eying the bottle. “You think getting drunk is really anything like being in heaven?”

Spike grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

She huffed out a resigned breath. “Oh, what the hell. Pour me a drink.”


	3. Where Things Got Fuzzy

Things started getting fuzzy after the fourth shot. Or was it the fifth? Fuzzy wasn’t exactly heaven-like, but it was still nicer than the sharp hell Buffy had slowly been adjusting to. Maybe she just needed to drink more. She clumsily picked up the whiskey bottle and was about to pour another shot—number five, or six, or whatever—when pale fingers clamped over her wrist.

“Luv, you might want to slow down on the sauce.”

“Pshhhh.” She jerked her arm away from Spike’s grip and waved the bottle. “Not feeling heaven yet.”

Spike lifted a brow. “You’re going to be feeling sick or unconscious here in just a minute if you keep up that pace. Now hand over the bloody hooch.”

Buffy scoffed at him and swayed owlishly in her seat on the sarcophagus where they’d somehow ended up, her in her yummy sushi pajamas and him in his usual black-on-black, with a neck-and-neck card game of War between them. “Nope,” she said while surveying his stupidly chiseled face—it kept changing shape around the edges. She squinted at him and took a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. It rushed down her throat, bitter and pungent. “Bleugh.”

Spike tried for the bottle again, but she tucked it against her chest in between her crossed legs, and he hesitated before dropping his hand. “That’s cheating.”

“Public s-service.”

Spike looked at her with clear amusement. “And how do you figure that?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Oh, it’s me who’s drunk, is it? And here I thought it was the Slayer about to topple off my futon. My mistake.”

Buffy glanced incredulously at the sarcophagus beneath them. “Your  _futon_?”

Spike shrugged. “Well, it’s sort of like one. Bit of a sofa, bit of a bed as the situation requires.”

“Futons don’t have dead people in them.”

“Oi!” Spike looked offended. “I cleaned out the bloke in here ages ago.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Gross.” Then she shrugged and took another swig of whiskey. “ _On_  them, then.”

“Well, can’t argue that one,” Spike said dryly. He motioned to their card game. “Ready for another battle?”

“I’m always ready,” she said haughtily, and flipped her card over as Spike quickly followed suit. She had a jack to his seven.

Spike swiped the whiskey bottle from her loose grip and gave her a cheeky grin as he took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a completely unfairly sexy way. And he apparently knew it, too. His eyes were sparkling when he set down the bottle. “Seems I’m at your command again, pet.”

“You are way too excited about that.”

“No such thing.” He leered at her for good measure. “So, what’s it going to be?”

True to their mangled game of “War meets Truth or Dare”, the winner of each battle got to ask a question for the loser to answer. Buffy was uncertain how she’d even gotten into this situation, although she had a vague feeling that she'd been the one to start it, after spying Spike’s deck of cards on a side table. Whoops.

“Mmmkay,” she said slowly, her gaze lazily floating around the crypt. It was strangely cozy for a mausoleum turned vamp nest; Spike had really fixed it up. “What’s your favorite place you’ve lived?”

Spike's brow furrowed and he looked about to say something, only to tightly purse his lips instead. Finally, he said, “Paris in the twenties. It was a hell of a lark. More famous people than you could shake a stick at. Dru and I even had a drink with Picasso once.”

“You did not.”

Spike huffed at her. “Did too, you disbelieving chit. He and Salmon were prattling on loudly about some Cubism thing, and Dru was curious, so she sat us right down at their table.” A nostalgic smile crossed his face. “We had a load of absinthe and stayed out with them until nearly dawn.”

“And you didn’t eat them?”

Spike nearly choked as he went for another swig of whiskey. “Of course we didn’t!” He waved around the bottle in exasperation. “It’s a bit of vampire code, alright?”

“What, ‘don’t eat the super famous people’?”

“Well, yeah. Pretty much.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I guess it’s good to know evil has  _some_  standards.” She snagged the whiskey back, frowning as she realized the bottle was nearing empty. “Next battle onward thingy.”

They flipped cards again. A pair of fours. They eyed each other momentarily, then swiftly laid three cards face down followed by one face up. Her nine to his six.

Spike sighed as he flipped over his cards. “Bugger. You took an ace.”

“I’m just that good,” she said, gathering the cards.

“Know you are,” she heard Spike mutter under his breath. Then, more loudly, he said, “So what’s it to be this time?”

Buffy took a long swig of the whiskey, coughing as it burned down her throat. “I want the real answer to my last question.”

Spike froze, then very stiffly shifted on the sarcophagus. “No. Ask me something else.”

“Nooope.” She popped the ‘p’ hard and leaned unsteadily forward. “Tell me.”

Ice blue eyes met hers, tight with strain. “Fine. It was New York City in the ‘70’s.”

He didn’t want to tell her  _that_? Why was freaking New York so… Oh. She set down the whiskey bottle with a thud and Spike visibly flinched. “Lucky her,” she muttered slurringly. “Nobody pulled  _her_  out of heaven.”

Spike’s expression turned completely stricken. “Buffy.”

She shook her head vehemently, stopping when it made the world woozy. She stared down at sarcophagus, realization heavy in her chest. “Spike?”

She heard him draw in a tentative breath. “Yeah?”

She hiccupped, and tears welled in her eyes. “This doesn’t feel like heaven.”

“Oh, luv.” The panic in Spike’s voice shifted up three notches as she sniffled. “Oh god, don’t cry, Buffy.”

“I’m not crying,” she said defiantly, wiping at her nose. She glared down at her card and flipped it.

Spike hesitantly followed suit a moment later, his king to her three.

“Your question,” she said evenly.

Spike cocked his head at her, his eyes evaluating and serious. “Why’d you come here this morning? Why’d you come to me?”

She frowned at him. “I thought we already established that we’re friends.”

“Yeah, but…” Uncertainty flashed across Spike’s face, and he trailed off.

Did she really have to spell out  _exactly_  why? That was not conducive to being drunk Buffy. She exhaled noisily and forced her brain to sort through what had driven her to his crypt. “It’s nice here with you. Kinda peaceful. I feel more okay when you're around.” The booze wasn’t helping her remember heaven but Spike was, like he’d been doing since the night of her return. If only she could bottle the feeling—make it  _more_ somehow. She froze, her eyes widening as she gazed at Spike. “Maybe… maybe if I just…”

Spike’s head tilted further under her scrutiny. “Buffy?”

She scrambled clumsily toward him, scattering cards and nearly knocking over the whiskey bottle as she lunged forward and pressed her lips against Spike’s startled ones.

For one horrible second he didn’t respond and every single fear and ounce of reason dulled by booze started to rise to the surface. It was all gone in the next second; a groan rose in Spike’s throat, and then he was all over her—his lips avidly consuming hers, his hands clutching the small of her back under her pajama top and twining in her hair. Warm fire spread through her in a wave, lighting parts of her body that had been dormant since long before she dove off Glory’s tower. For the first time since her return, she felt  _alive_.

It was a bitter disappointment when Spike broke away from her lips and stared at her, his mouth swollen and his expression stunned. “Buffy?” he asked hoarsely.

She hummed pensively, eyes half closing in consideration. Warmth. Fire. Pleasure. “Yep, that feels closer.” Confusion flooded Spike’s face, and she elaborated: “To heaven. To living.”

Shock parted Spike’s lips. “Oh, luv,” he whispered, brushing a finger down her jaw, “there’s no heaven or life to be found in me. Undead creature of the dark, remember? Wish there was… wish I could give you that.”

She made a small noise of disagreement. “Then why are your kisses so good?”

He gave a startled laugh, a smug smile curling up his mouth. “That’s what comes from living for over a century, I suppose. I've gotten  _good_  at a lot of things, pet."

Drunk annoyance flooded through her, bypassing her normal safeguards. “Angel never kissed like that,” she admitted in a stage whisper, glancing around as if her ex might pop up from behind Spike’s couch at any moment.

Spike snorted derisively. “He wouldn’t. The berk is like a damn pot near boiling with that soul of his. Always holding it all in.” He continued tracing her jaw with his finger and drew her attention back to him. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got, even if it’s not what you’re looking for.”

She studied him. He was beautiful and soft in the candlelight, this neutered master vampire who loved her for some insane reason. Panic overtook her. “I don’t love you,” she blurted automatically. Spike flinched back from her, and she immediately regretted it. She grabbed him with all the strength her drunken limbs would allow, wrapping him in a bear hug. “Wait.”

Spike drew in a sharp breath. “Buffy.” His voice was low and forced against her ear. “I know you don’t love me. I wasn’t…” His muscles tensed as he fruitlessly tried to ease out of her grip without setting off his chip, before finally relaxing again with a frustrated sigh. “Slayer, just let me go, alright?”

“No,” she said vehemently, resting her head on his shoulder as she tried to get her fuzzy thoughts to cooperate. “Just… wait. I need to think.”

He waited, still as a stone under her grip.

“Don’t love you,” she mumbled again in thought, and Spike stiffened further. “But I… like you?”

Soft, self-deprecating laughter met her. “That’s a question, is it? Thought being chums meant that part, at least.”

“I don’t like my other friends very much right now,” she reminded him. She shook her head against his shoulder. It was a surprisingly comfortable resting place for her cheek. She frowned and lifted her head as a sudden thought hit her. “You liar!”

Spike stared at her, flabbergasted. “What did I do now?”

“You– you said no being friends,” she railed at him, incensed. She slid off his lap and stumbled to a stand, flapping her arms. “No to the friends because blood not brains and– and love til death, blah blah blah!” She glared at him.

Spike still looked dumbfounded. “What the bleeding hell are you on about, Slayer?”

“When you came back to Sunnydale before,” she said fervently. “With your stupid love potion plan. You said that about Angel and me…”

Comprehension smoothed out his expression. “Oh. That.” He frowned again. “What about it?”

She deepened her glare. “You liar! You’re not my friend!”

Spike’s gaze dropped to his lap, and he clenched his fists. “I’ll always want more than your friendship, Buffy,” he said quietly. “I can’t lie.” His eyes flicked back up to her with speculative realization. “And since when do you believe that I love you?”

That was a good question. She shrugged helplessly. “I… I don’t know. Since Glory, I guess. Or since after.”

“Suppose it doesn’t matter the timing,” Spike said a bit unsteadily. He glanced toward the small window near the ceiling of the crypt, where sunlight was weakly starting to filter in. “Right. Well, you better toddle off back home before the Scooby brigade realizes you’ve flown the coop.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at the abrupt dismissal. “There’s still time.” She crossed her arms in her usual intimidation technique, but it was hard to keep up when her whiskey-loosened muscles wanted to slouch. “Why’re you trying to run me off all of a sudden?”

Spike’s lips quirked ruefully. “Caught that, did you?” He shrugged and turned slightly away from her as he stood, crouching down to pick up some of the playing cards she’d scattered in her hurry to maul his mouth. “Honestly? Because I don’t want you to sober up enough to be sorry for kissing me.” He paused and looked up at her, his blue eyes dark in the dim light. “Know it’s still going to happen, but I’d rather not be around for the floorshow, if you don’t mind.”

 _Was_  it going to happen? She hadn’t regretted kissing Spike the last time, but that had been a ‘thank you for letting a hell god pulverize you so that Dawn’s identity stayed safe’ kind of kiss. She’d regretted kissing him the first (dozen) times, but she'd been under Willow's spell. She hadn’t knowingly, unmagickly chosen that. She’d chosen this. Wanted this. And okay, so she probably wouldn’t have done it without the however many shots of whiskey currently in her stomach, but it still seemed like a dangerously good idea at the moment.

“I’m leaving,” she announced.

Spike bent his head back down to where she couldn’t see his eyes. “Off you go then,” he said lowly, continuing to pick up cards.

She headed unsteadily toward the crypt door, but paused and turned back at the threshold. It was so hard to leave these days. “Spike?”

He hesitantly looked over at her. “Yeah?”

“I do like you. And if I don’t regret kissing you later, I’m doing it again, mkay?”

Spike’s mouth fell open. “Christ,” he said fervently. “Should get you drunk more often.”

She rolled her eyes at him and stumbled out the door.


	4. What Started the Interrogation

It was probably the gang finding Buffy sprawled on her back in the middle of the front lawn in her yummy sushi pajamas that started the interrogation. She had meant to get back into her bedroom the same way she left—by climbing the tree and going in through her window. Except it turned out that drunk limbs were not nearly as responsive as sober ones, and one wrong move sent her tumbling down to the lawn. She landed with a pained whoomph as the breath was knocked from her lungs. Ouch. She was so going to feel that in the morning. Well, later in the morning.

But—once she could breathe again—it was actually sort of nice in the grass. Soft and a bit squishy. The lawn wasn’t exactly bedlike, but it was conveniently located. So Buffy laid there for a minute to catch her bearings.

Then a minute somehow turned into five and, before she knew it, the front door was flung open. Out poured a disheveled Giles in his bathrobe with a stake, her sister with a baseball bat, and the two witches in similar disarray. Tara hefted a feminine, weighty statue from their room, and sparks of red magic flickered from Willow’s fingertips.

Giles’s voice rang incredulously through the yard as he lowered the stake. “What in heaven’s name…”

The magic dissipated from Willow’s fingers as she warily glanced around. “I don’t see a demon anywhere.”

“No, me neither,” Tara confirmed.

They all looked so adorably flabbergasted that Buffy, now propped up on her elbows, laid back down on the grass and burst out laughing.

“Um, Buffy, are you okay?”

Buffy reined in her laughter at the slight hysteria in her sister’s voice. “Yeah, I’m okay, Dawnie.” She winced as the world stared spinning and queasiness rose. Maybe that last shot or two of whiskey had been a bad idea. “Just… I think I’m going to be sick.”

 

***

 

The one upside of feeling like she’d turned herself inside out with her new best buddy the toilet was that there was eventually nothing left on the inside that was now out. And in the interim, the process made the majority of her interrogators lose their enthusiasm. Only Giles was still waiting when she stumbled out of the bathroom, ready with a glass of water in hand and clearly trying to hold in his disapproval with that classic, pinched Giles-y look.

“I daresay Willow was right in her determination that no demon is to blame for your current state?”

 _Only in the sense that one provided the booze_. Buffy grimaced as she accepted the outstretched glass of water. “I mean, is the maker of Jack Daniels a demon? Because that would make a whole lot of sense right now.”

“Not that I’m aware, but I must admit I haven’t done any research into the matter.” Giles’s tone was wry and damningly weary.

“I’m trying to readjust,” Buffy said quietly as she sank onto the edge of her bed. “Really, I am.”

A heavy sigh was her answer as her Watcher sat next to her. He took off his glasses and polished them with deliberate motions. “I know you are.”

Buffy slumped, desperate for any fragment of news that wasn’t soaked in her booze-scented failure. “Oh! I got a job!”

Giles settled his glasses back on, some of the lines around his mouth fading. “You did?”

“Yep. Your Slayer is now a daytime working gal—the receptionist for a commercial plumbing company. It’s not glamorous, but it’s a full-time gig with benefits. I start on Monday.”

More of Giles’s worry lines faded as he smiled. “Well, that’s fantastic, Buffy.”

She doubted he’d be as thrilled if he knew the company was demon-owned. But some things were better left unsaid. Instead, she basked in the proud glow that he emanated and sipped her water. “Yeah, now I can tell those nice people at the phone company that they don’t actually need to turn off our service. Dawn’s going to be thrilled.”

“I can imagine.” Giles laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “And if you need anything to tide you over until your first paycheck, please let me know.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded.

Giles mirrored the motion, his eyes focusing on the edge of her bed—no doubt pretending he didn’t know she was on the verge of breaking down. “You’re readjusting fine, Buffy. Getting back into the swing of things just takes time.”

“That’s what Spike said,” Buffy mumbled thoughtlessly.

Giles’s hand on her shoulder stiffened. “Did he?” A hard edge crept into his voice. “Is he also the one who convinced you to drink at an ungodly hour in the morning?”

“No, that was my idea, mostly,” she said with a groan, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “A really stupid idea.”

A really stupid idea that led to her playing tonsil hockey with Spike. A lot of the morning was sort of a hazy blur, but not that. Not what she’d felt while kissing him. And he knew she’d regret it later.

But what the hell did he know?

Giles’s grip on her shoulder softened and slid away. “Well, we’re all prone to misadventures from time to time. And you have better reason for them than most.” He paused, expression tightening. “Though I must discourage you letting down your guard so thoroughly around Spike, defanged though he may be.”

Buffy bit her bottom lip. “Giles, he wouldn’t… I mean, I don’t think I’m in any danger from him anymore.” When her Watcher looked like he wanted to argue, she added, “He stayed after I died. He stayed and protected Dawn. And helped you guys pretty much every night, the way Dawn tells things. I know she’s probably exaggerating a little, but even so… those aren’t the actions of a vampire just biding his time for his one good day.”

Giles deflated before her eyes. “No,” he murmured. “No, I suppose it’s not.” He grimaced. “Am I to hazard that Spike has earned your trust?”

“He’s had my trust for while. He earned that this past spring when he almost died to protect Dawnie. Now he’s earned my friendship.” She faltered, unable to block out her rant to him just hours ago and his tense, resigned reply.  _I’ll always want more than your friendship, Buffy._

God, there was no way she could give him more. Even if she wanted to—and the jury wasn’t even going to deliberate on that decision—she just didn’t have that in her. She could barely make it through the day. Romance was entirely out of the question. But that made the desire to kiss him again even more murky and wrong.

Giles rose from the bed. “I must respect that then. Though you are a kinder and more forgiving being than I, my dear.”

Buffy smiled faintly. “In my line of work, holding grudges gets old. And I’d be really short on allies that way.”

“Indeed.” Giles made his way to the door. “Though it’s nearly seven in the morning, I imagine you’ll be off to bed?”

Buffy nodded wearily. “You’re an observant one, Watcher mine.”

“In which case, I bid you a restful sleep. I’ll ensure Dawn is seen off to school.”

“Thank you, Giles.” She held his gaze gratefully. “Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His parting smile as he shut the door was tinged with something sad. “Sweet dreams.”

 

***

 

Ten hours of sleep—even though half of it was filled with bad dreams—and a hefty dose of ibuprofen did wonders for Buffy’s hangover, but were significantly less amazing at organizing her jumbled thoughts. Still, some things were blindingly clear, and they undeniably needed to be made clear to a certain vampire, too.

After making sure Dawn had dinner in her that didn’t consist of cereal and ice cream, Buffy grabbed her jacket and stake, and swept out the door.

Spike looked up from his raggedly old couch as she barged into the crypt. Some kind of Spanish soap opera was blaring on the television, filling the crypt with incomprehensible words.

“Someone’s feeling back to their usual self.” Spike smirked, but the emotion didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guessing you’re not here for another round with Jack?”

Buffy barely repressed a shudder. “A world of no. I’m here because… we need to talk.”

“Ah.” Spike rose fluidly and switched off the TV. His jaw was clenched tight. “This the kind of talking that includes a punch to the nose?”

She lifted a brow. “Have you done something to deserve a punch to the nose?”

Spike held her gaze coolly. “You tell me, Slayer.”

“I mean, you’ve probably done something, but it hasn’t reached my ears.”

Spike turned away with a derisive snort. “Small mercies.”

They stood stiffly for a moment, neither one giving way. It seemed her drunken stupidity had raised both their armor. Yet another reason why kissing Spike again was a bad idea.

“We’re friends,” she blurted out. “That’s it, okay? The end. I can’t…. there’s nothing else there, even though I know you want there to be.”

Spike’s back stiffened, and he whirled back to her, blue eyes flashing in anger. “I don’t recall asking for more, Slayer. Least not since you came back.” He pointed an irate finger in her direction. “And I’m not the one who was doing the kissing this morning.”

“I know. I just…” Buffy exhaled noisily, helplessly. “Damnit, Spike, I want to kiss you again. And I  _can’t_.”

His mouth crooked with dark humor. “Let me guess: because it’s wrong?”

“Because I don’t want to use you. I told you before, I don't do that.”

His expression softened in surprise. He took a step toward her. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I would,” she said firmly. “I’ve been on the other end of that scenario. Trust me, it’s not fun.” Her breath escaped in soft, wry laughter. “And just for general reference, offering to let someone use you? Mucho bad idea.”

Spike stepped even closer, not stopping until he was close enough to brush a lock of hair away from her face. His face had taken on a predatory, adoring sheen. “Probably sound advice, luv, except that I’m absolutely shite at that sort of self-preservation. Told you this morning I’d give you everything of me. That wasn’t just”—his eyes were half-lidded, zeroing in on her mouth—“lip service. It’s who I am.”

She swallowed a tremble. “You’ve done pretty okay with the self-preserving-ness so far.”

“Luck,” he said, his tongue clicking heavily on the roof of his mouth. “And stubbornness.” His gaze was dark and heavy. “And pride. Anyone takes me down, it should be you.”

“Well, I’m flattered. That still doesn’t mean you should go around offering.”

Spike drew away slightly, far enough away that she could breathe again. “Never been all that great with ‘should’, pet.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it.” A beat of hesitation. “Are we okay?”

Spike sighed, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “Yeah, we’re okay. But if you change your mind about my offer, you let me know."

“Noted. So… patrol?”

Spike’s face brightened and he grabbed his duster from the back of his couch. “Thought you’d never ask, luv.”

 

***

 

Thankfully, a fairly busy patrol dissolved the last of the awkwardness and sexual tension—for the moment, anyway—and Buffy ended up back at Revello tired but satisfied.

Willow was still awake as Buffy came into the kitchen through the back door, and the redhead gave her a small wave over a cup of tea, the nowadays semi-permanent frown between her brows etching deep. “Heya. How was patrolling? Get lots of baddies?”

Buffy shrugged and slid her jacket off. “You know, the usual.”

“Right.”

Willow’s disappointment at the short reply was syrup thick, and Buffy internally sighed. Interacting with Willow since her return had been like walking on eggshells. The witch was always waiting for some outpouring of gratitude that Buffy could never bring herself to feign. She could do a lot—pretend that she hadn’t been ripped out of achingly blissful, eternal rest; pretend that she felt more than .2% of her emotions pre-death; pretend that she wasn’t just going through the motions of life—but not that.

Willow fiddled with the handle of her mug, trying for an encouraging smile. “So, Tara and I were talking… And with the whole you trying to get back in the groove of life thing and a new college semester just starting, we thought, well, maybe that you’d like to re-enroll at UC Sunnydale? Take the collegiate bull by the horns again and all?”

Buffy swallowed down her immediate annoyance. She was broke and trying to worry about just surviving—college was so not on the radar. But there was no point in exacerbating the situation, so she just went for a casual, “That’s a nice thought, Wil, but I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the registration deadlines.”

Willow’s face fell for only a second. “You could always audit! Sit in classes for the rest of the semester and then re-enroll for spring!”

Buffy scrunched up her nose. “Audit? Would I still get credit for classes this fall?”

“Oh, well, no…”

“Why not just wait for spring then?”

“You could, I guess, but…” Willow was giving her that kicked puppy dog look again. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get back on campus?”

Buffy sighed and leaned against the kitchen island. “Maybe. But it’s been so long.” An eternity, maybe, depending on how time in heaven worked. “And I have to take care of Dawnie. Higher ed is a nice thought, but I have to make sure Dawn makes it through high school. As required by the state of California and Social Services.” She tried for her own smile. “Plus, I got a receptionist job that I start on Monday. So time isn’t going to be so much with the available."

Willow blinked, clearly thrown. “Oh, you did? Well, that’s… that’s good!”

“Yeah.” Buffy slid away from the counter. “Anyway, I’m going to head to bed.”

Willow’s look turned sympathetic. “Still not feeling great after this morning? I have a spell that could probably–”

“No.” Buffy softened the sharp interruption with a tight smile that made her stomach churn. “Thanks, Wil, but no. I think sleep is probably best.”

Willow relented with an uncertain frown. “Okay, whatever you think.”

“Goodnight.” And without waiting for a reply, Buffy headed toward the stairs. She didn’t stop until she reached her room and locked the door behind her, forehead resting against the woodgrain.

Willow­—heaven’s judge, jury, and executioner—came up the stairs a few minutes later. Buffy listened intently until the footsteps faded away into her mom’s master bedroom, then she slid to the floor against the door and wrapped her arms around her knees to stop from shaking.


	5. Who Broke the Desk

It was probably the fourth demon that broke the reception desk. Or the fifth. Buffy’d sort of lost track during the onslaught. And to make matters worse, she was pretty sure the state of the office—they were long past ‘disheveled’ and far into ‘hurricane demon’ territory—meant she was about to lose her job, too.

On her first day of work.

Knowing her luck, some evil mastermind had sent them today just to screw with her life. As if she needed any external badness help on that front. Dawn was going to throw a fit if it turned out the phone service was a no-go after all. And there was that little problem of putting food on the table. Would Social Services take off points if the fridge was empty?

She knocked the last demon’s face in with her computer monitor, cringing when the screen shattered. Luckily, the demon shattered too. Green goo splattered everywhere, including all over her.

Which is how Greg found her five seconds later when he walked through the door. His beady eyes grew owlishly wide beneath his many folds as he took in the ruins of his front office. “What…?”

“I can explain,” Buffy said weakly, setting down the broken computer screen on the even more broken desk. It slid off the now-slanted base and fell to the carpet in a loud jumble. Buffy winced, her shoulders slumping. “A pack of demons came in looking for trouble, so I… took the trouble to them.” She straightened the remains of her pencil skirt, trying to hold onto the equally threadbare shreds of her dignity. “I’m really sorry. I’d offer to pay for repairs but I… don’t have any money. Which you probably knew already, with the whole moonlight pipe replacement thing.” When Greg’s only reply was an incoherent gurgle, she decided it was just better to cut her losses and run. And probably warn Spike to stay away from Greg’s general vicinity in the future. “I’ll just grab my things and, um, go.”

She had just snatched her goo-riddled purse when Greg finally found his voice. “Slayer, wait.”

She clutched the purse close to her chest and mentally sorted through her wallet. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered again. “I have twenty-three dollars on me if you… if you want it.” Twenty-three dollars that was supposed to be for groceries for the rest of the week. Apparently she was going to be begging Giles for money. God, he was going to be so disappointed in her.

“Slayer,” Greg said again, sounding firmer.

She managed to make her eyes focus on the loose-skinned demon, heart pounding with shame and dismay. “Yes?”

“Would you like a raise?”

Buffy stared at him. “Wha… huh?”

 

***

 

It turned out that Greg’s company had a number of plumbing jobs in Sunnydale that he wanted to take—and could make really good money on—but couldn’t accept due to the “site risks”; aka, his employees were not equipped to deal with the nastier hellmouth denizens in those areas. They were journeymen, not soldiers. But, irony of all ironies, the destruction of Greg’s office had apparently made him realize the value of having a soldier type around.

Dawn wrinkled her nose where she sat in the kitchen listening to Buffy’s excited retelling of the news. “So, you’re going to be like a bodyguard now?”

“Only some of the time,” Buffy corrected, pulling a carton of milk from the fridge and sniffing it experimentally. It had an edge of sour, but would probably be okay for another day or two. “I’ll still be working the front desk when they don’t need me out in the field.”

“You mean, when there’s actually a front desk for you to work at again.”

Buffy gave her sister a hard look. “Ha ha.” She paused in the middle of pulling out a box of cereal. “Just… don’t tell the others that part, okay?”

“Which part?”

“The supernatural part of my work part.”

Dawn’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Demony job already isn’t likely to get me a gold star, and now with the whole mercenary Slayer sitch…”

“I thought Clem’s family was a good kind of demon.”

Buffy sighed. “It is. Well, it’s neutral, at least. I think ‘good’ and ‘demon’ might be mutually exclusive. It’s just…” She trailed off, unsure of how to voice the problem.

Thankfully, Dawn finally seemed to understand. “Trying to avoid the third degree. Got it. Ix-nay on the money for superpowers-nay.”

“You’re a dork.”

Dawn grinned. “Well, I’m made from you, so…”

“So you’re entirely screwed.”

Dawn came around the kitchen island, wrapping her arms around Buffy’s waist in an unexpected hug that nearly made her spill her cereal. “Nah. You’re doing okay from where I’m standing.”

Buffy held back a wash of tears, hugging her sister back with careful strength. “Thanks, Dawnie.”

Dawn buried her head in Buffy’s shoulder. “I love you. I’m really glad you’re here.”

A lump swelled in her throat. “Love you too.”

 

***

 

On Wednesday, Buffy continued to keep with the streak of wrecked work days and stupidly eventful Halloweens. And it started with the morning from hell. She got through her entire stack of data entry just to find it back on her desk again when she turned around, time reset to precisely 9:47 a.m. It didn’t matter if she shredded it, trashed it, or did it backwards. Nothing seemed to work. About fifteen resets later, when she was about to cry at her desk, she realized that one of the columns was off—making the entire data set inaccurate. She asked for a corrected version from Greg, input the new one, and then—miracle of miracles—time went on as it was supposed to.

By the time her lunch break finally arrived, she was more than ready to escape the office. But as soon as she stepped into the Doublemeat Palace for a quick burger, time went all wonky again. Everyone started moving faster and faster, and suddenly it was two hours later, with the clock moving by leaps and bounds every time she blinked. Finally, she hid under one of the booths to avoid getting run over by people in fast forward, and realized some tiny metal thing was on her blouse. It exploded into a puff of smoke before she could be sure of what it was, however, which only confirmed her suspicions: someone was definitely screwing with her.

After apologizing to Greg  _again_  for being a cursed employee, she called Giles and explained the situation. She could practically hear him clean his glasses over the line.

“It sounds as if you are being systematically tested by an opponent,” he finally said. There was a pause. “How did you explain away the demon attack to your employer the other day?”

“Um. Vandals.”

“Right. Excellent then.” He sighed. “Well, I admit I have no real idea who or what might be doing this, but we’ll keep our ears to the ground. In the meantime, be on your guard.”

“Always.”

There was another pause—this one caused by a lot of background yelling that sounded like it came in the form of Anya’s voice—followed by Giles’s weary, “I am being scolded for taking a call during one of the busiest sale days of the year.”

“Are you hiding in the training room right now?”

“Ah, the loo, admittedly.”

“Crafty. That probably bought you an extra two minutes.”

“Yes, well, that was the faint hope.” Giles’s voice grew almost pleading. “I trust we’ll see you after work hours to come assist?”

“I think Anya might get one of her still-demony friends to curse me if I didn’t.”

A chuckle. “I really wouldn’t put it past her.”

Neither would Buffy. Which is why, even though she was exhausted and tense from her day of getting jerked around, she still forced herself through the bustling door of the Magic Box at 5:30. And was immediately met by Anya. Who was wearing booty shorts and roller skates.

“Oh good, you’re finally here!”

Buffy blinked. “Please don’t tell me that wheeled footwear is a sales assistant requirement.”

Anya waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. Your shoes are more than serviceable.” She squinted down at Buffy’s flats. “Though very scuffed.”

Buffy grimaced. “Thanks.”

“Well, just show the customers more items to distract them from your wardrobe.” Anya seemed to catch herself. “Not that I don’t appreciate the presence of your free labor.” She glanced over to the checkout counter, a line drawing between her brows at the mob plaguing Giles around the register. “We’re low on mandrake root. Check the basement!”

She zoomed off without another word, leaving Buffy to stare after her.

Dawn sidled up with a small grin. “She’s an angel.”

Buffy lifted an incredulous brow. “I know you don’t mean personality-wise.”

“Costume-wise. She’s a Charlie’s Angel.”

“Oh.” Well, that made a lot more sense. Buffy sighed. “I better go find that mandrake root.”

Dawn gave her a sympathetic ‘thank god that’s not me’ look. “Probably.”

Unfortunately, Buffy had zero idea where the mandrake root was supposed to be. Or what mandrake root actually  _was_. Hopefully it was actually a root-y type thing and not severely misnamed. Familiar prickles slid up the back of her neck as she searched the shelves, followed by a familiar dark form coming from the back of the basement.

“Spike?”

He lifted a brow as he stopped a few feet away, a puzzled smile crossing his face. “’Lo, pet. What’re you doing down here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

His expression turned shifty. “Uh, doing a bit of light shopping.” He pulled a clump of roots from inside his duster. “Burba weed. Makes the pig slop go down a bit easier.”

“Well, you might want to wait on the rest of your grocery list until later. You don’t want to get anywhere near the cash register right now."

"Oh?"

"It’s like when the kids turned into monsters on Halloween thing all over again. Except for real. And they're all upstairs.”

Spike flashed her a wicked grin. “Good thing I planned to nick this then.”

Buffy barely held in an eye roll. “Why does that not even surprise me?”

“Luv, the day you’re surprised by me committing petty theft is the day I turn in my demon card without complaint.” He lifted a brow. “And it’s your turn, by the way.”

“…Turn?”

“For explaining why you’re down here.” His eyes scanned her work attire appreciatively. “While so delectably dressed.”

“Delectably? Do you have a business casual attire kink or something?”

He grinned. “Might, if all of it shows off your figure as well as that little skirt and blouse combo does.”

Purely female pride swelled in her, followed quickly by a wash of desire, and she was suddenly far too aware of their close proximity. Of the quiet and shadowed basement that heightened Spike’s predatory energy. God, how did he do that? She swallowed and forced herself to step back, aimlessly peering across the shelves again. “Anya sent me down to look for mandrake root.”

Spike’s lips quirked. “Browbeat you into a bit of holiday customer disservice, did she?”

“Along with the whole gang. You should see Xander upstairs. He’s gone full  _Pirates of Penzance_.”

Spike’s face scrunched up in disgust. “And on that cue, I’m off.” He nodded at the shelf next to him as he turned away to head back toward the tunnels. “Think your root’s there, by the by.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated. “I know it’s Halloween, but if you’re free later, maybe some patrol?”

He turned back to her questioningly. “Figured you’d want the night off. Should be quiet, and you’re already pulling a double shift.”

“Ugh, try like quadruple shift, with the morning that wouldn’t end.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Buffy sighed as she pulled the jar of roots from the shelf. “A very boring and repeat-y one. Let’s just go with ‘Buffy needs a bit of stress relief before bedtime.’”

Spike grinned. “Fine by me, luv.” He gave her a small nod. “Stop by whenever.”

“Sooner rather than later, if I get my way,” she said firmly, heading back toward the stairs.

Unfortunately, ‘sooner’ was very quickly out of the question when—just after closing time—Xander dropped the bombshell that he and Anya were getting married. Which then precipitated an impromptu engagement party at Revello Drive.

Buffy tried to smile and offer congratulations in all the right places, guiltily holding back the disorientation and loneliness that was blossoming in the pit of her stomach. Three months dead and gone, and everything was different. Xander was a real grown-up—about to become a husband; Dawn was a high schooler, and cared more about going to Janice’s than hanging with the gang; Willow was hardly recognizable—self-confident and commanding; Giles was no longer a permanent Sunnydale fixture—currently reduced to sleeping on her couch—and she had no idea if he intended to stay there, or what was going to happen since he’d sold his apartment after her death. It was all a jumble of change, and none of it helped her feel like she belonged more above the ground than below it.

It was almost a relief to get the call that Dawn had played a classic switch-a-roo—Janice telling her mom she was with them, and the reverse. Buffy wanted to be upset, but she’d done the same thing way more times through the years, and for far more dangerous reasons.

But Dawnie was still going to be so, so grounded.

Thankfully, Buffy convinced the Scoobies to split up in the search for Miss MIA, and went alone to find Spike. He was predictably in his crypt, watching some old Halloween movie.

“You have a serious TV problem. Ever think of getting another hobby or two? Like knitting. Or hopscotch. You know, just to round things out.”

Spike huffed. “Got plenty of other hobbies, Slayer. Just didn’t want to go anywhere in case you showed up.” He switched off the TV set with a pointed look. “Thought you said sooner over later. It’s getting on near midnight.”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped, all the weight of the day falling on her. “I got waylaid.” She tried for a smile. “Turns out Xander and Anya are engaged.”

Spike’s brows lifted. “That so? Well, good on them, I suppose.” He cocked his head, surveying her. “Surprised you’re not looking more chuffed. Don’t chits get moony and starry-eyed over that sort of thing?”

There were a million things she could say to that—and a million more she didn’t know how to say, or if she even should. Instead, she blurted out, “Friends can kiss.”

Spike froze. “What?”

She bit her lip and turned away. “I mean… never mind.”

She felt Spike slide closer. His voice dropped a decibel. “No, not never mind, Slayer.” A cold hand brushed her shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

She sighed and turned back to him.

“So…” he drawled once he had her full attention, "this mean you go ‘round kissing Red and Harris on the regular?”

“Huh?”

“Just wondering how much snogging has been going on in your little gang with that kind of policy.”

Buffy huffed. “Don’t be an ass.” She dropped her chin as she wrapped her arms around her waist, unable to keep the distress from her voice. “I know it’s unfair. It’s super, crazy with the unfair. And I know I said… but I just…” She swallowed, shaking her head and breaking away from the thought. “This isn’t even why I came here.”

“No? Well, it’s still a good reason in my book.”

“Dawn gave us the slip. She’s off with Janice… somewhere.”

Spike snorted. “Little sneak. She  _is_  a bitty Buffy, isn’t she?”

“In many of the ways she probably shouldn’t be.”

Spike stepped closer, his fingers trailing down her upper arm. “Don’t fret, luv. We’ll find her. I assume that's why you really came—looking for a bit of vamp tracking assistance?”

“Mostly,” she managed, unable to tear her gaze from his—dark blue in the dim light of the crypt.

He gave her a soft smile. “Just mostly?”

“Just mostly,” she agreed, equally softly.

“Well, that’s alright then.” He dipped his head toward her and soft lips pressed against hers. She nearly sobbed in relief, offering back a desperate parry of lips and tongue. Strong arms banded around her waist and pulled her closer with a growl. Her hands came up and threaded through his hair, loosening it from its gelled hold. Kissing Spike while drunk had been nice—more than nice—but doing it sober was an entirely different experience. Better, in a surround sound kind of way. All of her disorientation dropped away—drowned out by fire and dueling tongues.

When she finally, reluctantly pulled away, all she could manage was a breathless, “We’d better go find Dawnie.”

Spike nodded, his expression slightly glazed, his helmet of hair loosened into scattered curls. “Yeah.” He snuck in a last kiss against her lips, there and gone too quickly for her to even think of protesting.

“What was that for?”

“Figured I should grab all I can in case this was just a moment of weakness on your part.”

“It should be,” she said quietly. “It’s cruel.”

Spike scoffed. “Because kissing the woman I love is the worst torture in the world.”

“Spike…”

“You said you don’t want to use me and all that rot, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, if we’re still just friends, then it’s not like you’re crossing the line. You’re not promising me anything, Buffy—no delusions of romance here.”

She gave him a hard look. “That’s not how that works and we both know it.”

He conceded her point with a shrug. “Alright then, let’s go about it this way: do you want to kiss me because you want  _me_ , or just because you want to be kissed?”

“I…” She paused in consideration.  _Was_  it just Spike? Or would any guy do? She tried to imagine someone else in Spike’s place—anyone else—Angel or Riley or the cute barista at the Espresso Pump. None of them made her want to jump into a lip lock. “It’s just you.”

Spike’s delight brightened his entire face, though he shoved it down to faux-casual acceptance a moment later. “Not a court in the world that would accuse you of using me then, Buffy. It’s more than I ever…” He let the rest of the words fall away and cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s go find the Niblet. We’ll sort out the particulars after.”

“Particulars?”

“Of this chummy snogging.”

A small breath of laughter escaped, her heart loosening in her chest as she opened the crypt door and waited for Spike to step beside her. “Okay, well, first things first: we are never calling it ‘chummy snogging’ ever again.”


	6. Why Dawn Was Parking With a Vamp

There better have been a damn good reason why Dawn was parking in the woods with a vamp. Except there was no reason that could possibly be good enough. The vampire lovefesting was one way that Dawn was absolutely never,  _not a chance in hell where it better be freaking snowing_  going to be like her sister.

“I-I didn't know he was dead!”

“Living dead,” Dawn's letterman jacket and bumpies wearing date corrected, looking a bit offended.

Buffy had a sudden flashback to Angel vamping out mid-kiss and escaping through her bedroom window. Oh crap, Dawn really was a Buffy 2.0. Except that this scrawny little jock was totally not Angel material.

Buffy put her hands on her hips with an exasperated exhale. “Have I not taught you anything? Lack of pulse and corpse-like cold aren’t on the acceptable boy models.”

Dawn bristled. “They’ve been on yours! And you’re the Slayer, so that’s like twenty times worse than me doing it.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Oh, we are  _so_  not talking about me right now, missy.”

Jock boy stared between them in amazement. “Wait, your sister’s the Slayer? Sweet.”

Both Summers sisters threw him incredulous looks.

“What? Dawn’s really cool. I knew there was something special about her.”

Spike snorted from behind Buffy’s left shoulder. “At least the boy’s got good taste.” His voice sharpened, deepening to deadly. “Too bad he’s about to get his head wrenched off.”

Buffy turned and gave Spike a tight smile as a half dozen vamps came out of the dark to converge on their little meeting spot. Now it was really a party. “The largest dust cloud maker gets the honors?”

Spike flashed a fangy grin. “You’re on, Slayer.”

In the end, Dawn ended up with the honors, impaling her would-be boyfriend with a pencil when he went in for the kill. And of course the entire ordeal left her with yet another layer of trauma that probably deserved twenty years of therapy Buffy couldn’t afford.

The group was quiet on the way home, stopping only to drop off Janice—who had been thoughtfully rescued from being a vamp snack by Giles. Spike walked them to the door on Revello and then disappeared with a quiet, “You know where to find me.”

Buffy just nodded and continued through the threshold. Spike things later; sister punishment now.

Giles wavered by the entryway, a hand pressed to his swelling jaw, as Dawn sank down into a chair in the dining room. "You're going to speak with her, I presume?"

"I'm on it." She threw him an apologetic smile. "The icepacks are on the bottom shelf of the freezer."

Giles grimaced. "Unfortunately, I'm very familiar with their placement." He nodded toward the dining room. "Do you need any advice? I admit, teenage antics aren't my forte, but..."

"No, it's okay. I'm planning to just channel mom. I was on the other end of this kind of thing a lot, as I'm sure you remember."

Giles's lips twitched. "Quite."

Buffy straightened her shoulders and headed into the dining room, taking the end seat adjacent to Dawn's. When Dawn just sat staring mulishly down at the table, Buffy rubbed her temples to ward off the forthcoming headache. “Do I even need to cover the fact that you’re grounded until after the next apocalypse? Which, hey, is probably in less than seven months, so you’re getting off easy.”

“I just wanted to go out with my friends,” Dawn muttered.

“It’s a hellmouth, Dawnie. And you’re sort of a high profile catch for anything evil. You can’t just wander around here without at least telling me where you’re going.” She grasped her sister’s hands in a fierce grip. “I’m responsible for you, do you understand that?”

Dawn hunched on herself, looking like she was about to cry. “Yeah, I know. If I’m bad, Social Services will take me away.”

“Not just because of that.” When Dawn’s teary eyes met hers, Buffy continued with a gently impassioned, “You’re my sister. And I love you  _so_ much. Being here after…”  _No, can’t go there._  She swallowed and tried a less dangerous angle. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Dawn’s brimming eyes almost overflowed, though her expression was mutinous and angry. “Well, I lost  _you_ , remember? I survived.”

“You did.” Buffy gathered the tatters of her composure, her voice strained as she raised a hand and ran it down Dawn’s long hair. “You were so brave, Dawnie. So strong.”

Dawn stared her at her, tears starting to fall. She brushed them away with an angry sniffle. “I didn’t want to have to be strong.”

_I know the feeling._

Dawn’s next words were thick and wavering. “But you made me promise. I was so mad at you. It was supposed to be me.”

Buffy’s vision blurred as she slid down from her chair and knelt at her sister’s legs. “Never,” she bit out fiercely. “Between me and you, kiddo, it’ll be me doing the swan dive every time. Do you understand me?”

Dawn’s chin trembled; she erupted into hiccuping sobs and threw her arms around Buffy’s neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Buffy had no idea what exactly was being apologized for—the leap off the tower? The vamp parking situation? Any future sacrifices?—but it didn’t really matter. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.” She stroked Dawn’s hair in soothing motions until the sobs lessened. “You’re still grounded, but you’re okay.”

Dawn’s tinkling, annoyed laugh vibrated against Buffy’s shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“Older sister prerogative.”

“Technically, I’m way older. Ancient ball of green energy, remember?”

“Nice try, but your body’s like two. And it was the body causing trouble earlier, so…”

“Ugh. That is so unfair.”

Buffy’s mouth drew a crooked line. “That’s life.” 

 

***

 

Buffy ended up not seeing Spike until the next evening. As promised, he was exactly where she knew to find him—though reading on the sarcophagus this time instead of watching TV. His head snapped up as she entered, a small smile flickering to life across his lips.

“Just after sunset, pet. What’s got you off and about so early?”

“Well,  _somebody_  was annoyed I kept him waiting the other night, so…”

Spike’s smile turned into a grin as he set the book to the side and slid off the sarcophagus. “Must be an impatient bastard. I’d wait all night for a woman like you.” He stepped toward her, drinking her in as if he hadn’t seen her for weeks. “Get things all sorted with kid sis?”

“For the moment. But headstrong teenager and hellmouth do not a peaceful combination make. My bet’s on things staying quiet until next Tuesday.” She sighed. “Honestly, what is it with Tuesdays and trouble around here?”

Spike laughed and reached out to gently trail a hand down her hair—not unlike the way she’d touched Dawn's locks earlier. “Dunno, luv. Never felt a particular gravitation toward the day myself.”

Buffy gave him a disbelieving look even as she leaned toward his touch. “You're kidding, right? I met you on a Tuesday.”

“You remember the day of the week?” His tongue snaked behind his teeth. “That memorable, was I?”

“I tend to remember death threats that give a date of expiration. Not that you waited for it.”

“Impatient bastard,” Spike reminded her, stepping closer and encircling her with his arms.

“I’ll say,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“You seem tired, Slayer.”

“And that’s different from the usual how?” Her hands slipped around his waist, steadying herself against hard muscle. “Still the girl with a heaven hangover here. Can’t get a good night’s death, can’t get a good night’s sleep. Either I dream of heaven or I dream of getting torn out and waking up in my coffin. Both majorly of the suckage. It’s easier to just stay awake and be Zombie Buffy.”

Spike’s voice rumbled against her hair, tinged with amusement. “Any cravings for brain tissue?”

“Not so far.” Other cravings were in full force though, especially since she could feel the evidence of Spike’s desire hard against her hip. She drew back—suddenly more than ready to talk about their new kissing arrangement—but Spike was one step ahead of her. His lips crashed against hers before she could get a word out, and she melted into them with a grateful moan. Talking was overrated anyway.

They stumbled blindly toward the couch and eventually tumbled onto it in a tangle of limbs, Spike half laying on her and the back of Buffy’s head atop one of the armrests. Spike’s kisses—languorous and hard—drugged her with warm feeling while his fingers traced up and down her spine over her sweater, teasing her with the potential of touch until she thought she might go insane.

“Just take it off,” she demanded finally, breaking her mouth from his. When Spike regarded her in confusion, she shifted on the couch and did it herself, tossing her shirt away.

Spike swallowed hard, his gaze fluttering uncertainly across her torso before shifting back to her face. “Buffy?”

“I want you to touch me,” she said brazenly, then flushed as she realized the line she’d just crossed. “This takes us out of kissing territory, doesn’t it?”

Spike’s gaze darkened, heated. “Doesn’t have to. We never said  _where_  the kissing could happen. Case in point…” He lowered his mouth to her shoulder and placed a long, sucking kiss against it that made her belly flutter.

“Spike…”

He looked up at her from beneath dark lashes. “Here alright, then?”

She swallowed and nodded.

Spike's mouth shifted down, his hand moving her arm closer so that his tongue could tease the inside of her elbow. A jolt of pleasure jumped from the spot, as if she was Frankenstein’s monster in the electric storm. “Here?” When she nodded, he continued downward, pressing butterfly kisses against her inner arm and down to her wrist. “How about here, luv? Can I kiss you here?” Another nod. His mouth shifted to her palm and he laved it with his tongue until she was gasping and writhing.

“ _Spike_.”

He moved to her fingers without a word then pressed tender kisses against each one of her knuckles before moving back up to her shoulder, leaving electricity everywhere in his wake. When he hit new territory again beneath her collarbone, he paused and met her eyes solemnly. “Can I kiss you here, Buffy?”

Her voice came out breathless, strained. “Yes.” She’d kill him if he stopped, in fact. 

Her bra was gone without mention, Spike’s mouth only pausing a second over her nipples, not even able to get the question out before she gave him a harsh, “Yes.”

He grinned and sucked her into his mouth, his fingers kneading her tits and brushing down her ribs—heralds of where his mouth was heading next.

When he reached the waistline of her slacks, he pressed a last kiss against her bellybutton before looking up at her hungrily. His fingers traced her panty line. “Can I kiss you here?”

She stared down at him—almost beyond words—almost beyond realizing what a dangerous path this excursion had taken. Almost. “I…”

Spike's gaze never wavered as he dipped his head and dotted kisses across her belly. “Tell me, Buffy. Tell me I can kiss you here.” His voice was low and deep. Electricity flared.

“Yes.”

Her panties and pants were tugged down her legs, leaving her naked on the couch and panting like she’d just run a marathon. She felt flushed and awake— _alive_. Spike claimed to not be a source of life and maybe that was true, but he was definitely a pathway to get it to her—some unbridled conduit jolting her away from zombie-ism and back into the land of the living.

She shifted her legs open, knees slightly bent, baring herself. She met Spike’s eyes. “Kiss me here.”

His gaze flashed amber, a groan tearing from his throat. “Yes. Christ, yes.”

When his mouth met her flesh again, Buffy realized quickly just how many places there were for him to kiss down there that she'd never considered—not just her needy clit, but her lower lips and the insides of her opening, and the crease of her inner thigh, and the top of her mound. Nowhere was left untouched. Electricity flowed hard and fast through her until she was a live wire. Pleas for release tumbled from her mouth until Spike finally took mercy on her and sucked her clit with fervor, his tongue accompanying with a vicious swirl. Pleasure spasmed through her like a storm, surging outward to her fingertips until she was boneless and gasping for breath, a trembling mess.

Oh god. Oh  _god_. Oh god, what had she...

The beginnings of her downward spiral cut off when Spike’s tongue began lapping at her again, and she sank thankfully back down into pleasure.

At some point, Buffy’s sense of fair play took hold and she shoved him away from in between her thighs. He landed against the other armrest, staring at her with wary shock.

“My turn for kisses,” she told him flatly, and his concern washed away into hunger.

Admittedly, she didn’t ask where she could kiss—she just took what she wanted—but Spike gave his consent over and over nonetheless. His hands twined in her hair, spasming whenever she hit an especially sensitive spot—his neck, nipples, abs, the insides of his knees.

“Yes. _Yes_. Fuck, yes, Buffy.”

He was naked for a long time before she turned her attention to his cock. It was weeping, pre-come flowing down from the tip as it stood up for her. Veins ran thick and pulsing—alive.

“All for you, luv,” Spike croaked, his left hand reaching down to grip it at the base. “If you want it.”

She knew he meant if she wanted to kiss it, since that’s all they’d technically been doing still. She shifted forward and away, not missing his flash of disappointment. It quickly turned to stunned awe when she slid up his body and sank down on him instead, letting him enter her in one hard thrust that made them both gasp.

She swallowed down a moan as he twitched inside her, and leaned down to kiss him. “I want it.”

Spike shuddered beneath her. “God, yes. Want you.” His hands shifted to her hips, holding and supporting her as she straddled him. Then he was kissing her again, both of their mouths covered in the taste of the other as he rocked inside her. Her hips thrust down to meet his, and they settled into a rolling rhythm that left them breathless, their kisses becoming sloppier and harder until Spike finally threw his head back on the armrest with a low curse, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting as his cock jerked inside her.

Neither of them moved for a long moment—Spike didn’t look up, didn’t open his eyes, though his chest heaved. His skin was dotted with bite marks and hickeys—some deep enough that faint traces of blood welled in the tracks.

“I bit you.”

A raspy chuckle slipped through his lips. “Yeah. And I loved it.”

Buffy swallowed hard, a maelstrom of chaotic emotion tumbling through her on the heels of dire certainty. Everything had changed. “Spike.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but tension stiffened his spine at her tone. “Yeah?”

She took a breath and made herself be brave. “What we just did… friends don’t do that.”

His hands clenched against her hips. He finally lifted his head to look at her, his voice pleading. “I’m still your friend.”

It was Buffy’s turn to close her eyes, unable to bear his distraught gaze. “You can’t be. Not like before.”

She felt Spike’s flinch­—it ran through his entire body. “God, Buffy, please. Please don’t…” A shaking, feather light touch traced up her ribs. “Please. I’ll never touch you again.”

Her eyes snapped open. “I want you to. And I want to touch you.”  _Want to mark you, so that it shows we’re both alive._  What had the vision quest guide said before her death beyond the infamously memorable _death is your gift, no returns allowed_  speech? Something about forging strength from pain. Spike took pleasure in a little bit of pain. She could manage that balance—use it to claw her way out of her grave, and maybe make both of them a little happy.

Spike's hand paused in its path as he regarded her helplessly. “Then what… luv, just tell me what to do.”

“This isn’t a romance,” she said quietly. “I still can’t offer that. I don’t even know how to be a girlfriend right now. I don’t think I’d be a very good one.”

Spike’s mouth parted in question, hope sparking his gaze. “What’re you saying, pet?”

“I’m saying I can give you something. Something like this. It’s not much, but it’s… it would be shared. It wouldn’t be me using you. Is that… would you want that? Would it make you happy?”

Breathless, incredulous laughter met her question. “Bloody hell, yes.” A thought seemed to hit him then and he sobered. “Would this be a secret, you and me together?”

“I…” Buffy's voice stalled as terror raced through her.

Spike’s jaw clenched, clearly seeing her panic. “Never mind, pet. Doesn’t matter.” He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes though, and pain lanced through her. But not the strength-giving kind.

“It’s mine,” she blurted, and Spike’s gaze snapped back to her. “This… what we did, what we might keep doing… I don’t want anyone else to get a say in it.”

Spike’s gaze softened. “And if the Scoobies find out?”

Buffy’s heart fluttered in her chest, but she held her ground. “Then they find out. And they’ll have to deal.”

Spike’s smile was true and vulnerable. “You're a marvel.” He brushed a finger down her arm that made her shiver, and his cock swelled inside her. “What should I call you, if not my girl? My lover? My sweetheart?”

She rocked her hips slowly, feeling him come more to life inside her, hard and pulsing. “Yes.”


	7. How Spike’s Voice Drew Buffy From Sleep

Spike’s voice drew Buffy from sleep just as it had almost every day for the past couple weeks—her vampire lover alarm clock. He always roused her so that she was up in time to get Dawn ready for the day, whether they were in his crypt or he’d snuck into her room. Only, he’d never opted for singing to her before. No, scratch that: he wasn’t just singing to her, he was  _serenading_  her. Not that she was complaining, per se, but it was… weird. His voice was a soft, intense growl—lyrics coated in love and lust like some vampiric Barry White—as he worked his way around her naked body, manipulating her to orgasm with ruthless ease _._ And was there  _music_  playing somewhere in the crypt?

 _“… I’m your monster, sweetheart_  
_I’ll make you scream so sweet_  
 _My heart’s all bloody for you,_  
 _Impale it through the floor_  
 _Doesn’t matter how you slay me—_  
 _It’s how we know this’ll end._  
 _I’m your monster, sweetheart.”_

When the last lyric ended and the last chords of invisible instruments finally faded, Spike’s expression shifted immediately to one of flabbergasted horror. “What the bloody hell was  _that_?”

“I take it you didn’t mean to work some previously unmentioned singer-songwriter muscles this morning?”

“Fuck no!” He clambered off the bed with a snarl. “When I find the wanker who did this, I’m going to rip out their lungs.”

Spike continued swearing up a storm, but Buffy tuned him out as her post-coital brain finally processed the last lyrics he’d pressed against her skin. “Was that true, what you sang?”

Spike’s form stilled. “Which part?”

“You know exactly which part.”

Blue eyes found hers, tight with determined resignation. “It’s true enough. But you could call it quits today—stake me right now—and it wouldn’t matter. These last two weeks have been…” Ragged laughter rumbled through his chest. “Christ, Buffy, they’ve been everything.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, anger and confusion bubbling up in her. “Why am I the one calling it quits? I thought this was shared.”

“It is,” Spike agreed solemnly. “But I’ll never want this to end.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And I will?”

Spike’s expression washed into surprise. An edge of wary hope glinted in his gaze. “Won’t you?”

“I…” Buffy scrabbled for certainty, and found none. But that was nothing new—certainly not an addition to her life post-death. Life had been one gigantic ball of uncertainty since she could remember. So, she clung to the one thing she knew to be true. “I don’t want it now.”

The tension drained from Spike’s posture. “Well. That’s something.”

“Just  _something_?”

A smile flickered on his lips at her affront. “A boatload of something, pet.”

“Good.” Buffy rose from the bed, not missing the way Spike’s eyes hungrily followed the motion. She shifted away as he reached for her. “Nu uh. No more of that until we figure out who infected you with drama club aspirations.”

Spike’s gaze darkened and soured. He cast around for his discarded jeans. “Right. Let’s get on that. I’ve had more than enough of Vampire Off-Broadway.”

Of course, it quickly became obvious that the whole town was infected. Several new musical hits later, their Broadway Big Bad was revealed via some weird Pinocchio minion, and the gang pulled together to rescue Xander from becoming a demon’s bride.

Dawn straightened proudly from her seat at the Magic Box while Spike wrestled with the news-delivering minion. “And look, I’m not the one who needs rescuing.”

Buffy lifted a brow. “That’s because you were inside being grounded after your need for rescue two weeks ago.”

Dawn shrugged. “Whatever. I still say I get points for effort.”

“Yes, very well done, Dawn,” Giles said distractedly. “But I believe there are more important things to attend to, not the least of which is Xander’s newly re-scheduled nuptials.” He finished the last word on a hitched note, his mouth twitching with clearly suppressed amusement.

Spike had no such control. After the minion escaped in a surprising feat of strength, he turned with a wicked grin. “Dunno, Rupes. Kind of looking forward to seeing Harris in bridal attire.”

“ _I’m_  supposed to be the one wearing the veil,” Anya declared huffily as she hefted an axe, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

The others carefully ignored her jealous ballad on the way to the Bronze.

Buffy and Spike dealt with the minions upon the group’s arrival, swiftly taking out the wooden weirdos with several of the Bronze’s oft-destroyed supply of pool cues. Less swift was the musical number Sweet made Buffy sing during and after. Everything she’d sworn to keep buried and safe—dead like she was supposed to be—came pouring out, refrain upon refrain.

_“… I think I was in Heaven.”_

After that, her insinuative final lines about Spike being her only saving grace—

 _"I touch the fire and it freezes me_  
_But he’s ice and I melt again_  
_Melt down down down"_

—hardly warranted more than a twinge of frustration. So much for keeping any kind of secret for her own.

_"I melt down."_

Disappointment marred Sweet’s voice as the last note faded. “Well, that was… enlightening. I was hoping for a bit more  _fire_ , but…”

Willow stepped forward from the side of the stage, her form furious and crackling with magic. “Get out of here.”

Sweet made some noise in the form of another musical number, but eventually admitted defeat with a twinkle in his eyes and swept away back to wherever he’d come from, sans bride.

Buffy stared at the place he’d stood moments before, feeling everyone’s eyes burning into the back of her skull. Oh god. She couldn’t face them. Didn’t want their pity or pleas for forgiveness, or anything at all.

She ran.

Of course, she had gotten no more than a block away when Spike’s black clad form slipped next to hers, matching her raggedly desperate pace with smooth determination. His hand found hers, his grip so tight it hurt. She clung to the pain, her fingers pushing back until her nails drew blood.

She thought Spike might gloat—or at least crow a little—about the sudden reveal of their whatever it was that they had, but all he said was, “Come with me, luv.”

She followed him willingly, numbly, to the closest cemetery, and let him push her back against one of the massive statues guarding the realm. He tugged her pants down her legs and kissed up the inside of her thighs, leaving bright fire in his wake. The sensation broke the dam of stunned horror that’d been building in her chest, and a sob escaped her throat.

“ _Why_?”

Spike spread her legs further, his fingers brushing her folds. His voice was tight with forced steadiness. “Why what, sweetheart?”

“Why did they let Willow take me out? Was I not good enough?”

Spike stared at her incredulously. “Oh, bloody hell. Is that what you think?”

Her throat closed tight. “What else am I supposed to think?”

“That you’re the sodding Chosen One! If you weren’t good enough, there isn’t a soul in the universe that is.”

“But-“

His fingers plunged inside her, cutting off her protest. His eyes flashed gold. “But nothing.”

Buffy gasped as he worked on her, his thumb circling her clit mercilessly. Her head fell back against the marble base of the statue, and she stared up into the dark night through the open space between a pair of… angel wings? Spike was fucking her against the statue of an angel. Chosen on purpose, no doubt.

“Then why?” she repeated waveringly, raising a hand to brush the lowest tip of a white marble wing. It was smooth and cool, not unlike the fingers delving inside her.

Spike’s sigh was like silken silver against her skin. “Because not even heaven was bloody well ready to forfend itself against Red’s kind of power. The failing’s not with you, pet. It’s with her.”

Buffy kept her teary gaze fixed on the pinpricks of stars. Her senses greedily hummed with rising pleasure—she came with a cry, and her fingers slipped from the statue. She reached for Spike as he started coaxing her toward another orgasm. “I want you inside me.”

A low groan was her reply, quickly followed by a belt jingling and a zipper sliding down. She wrapped her legs around Spike’s waist, and a cool cock nudged at her folds.

“How do you want it, luv?” There was a hesitation. “Need it to hurt?”

Buffy’s thighs tightened around Spike's waist at his uncertainty. They’d figured out their first week together that he could hurt her. Her and no one else. He’d been fucking her just a little too hard—and still not hard enough—and a pained cry had escaped her lips. They froze—Spike waiting for the chip’s reprimand and Buffy wincing in prepared apology—but the Initiative-assured interruption never came. Spike’s eyes widened.

“Buffy… I…”

She could tell Spike was gearing up for a terrified defense, but she cut him off with a sharp, “Do it again. Harder.”

Blue eyes searched hers blankly. “Harder?”

“ _Please_.” She clenched her muscles around him in emphasis, her body flush and throbbing with terrible eagerness. “We’ll figure it out later.”

All told, she’d been prepared for the chip to just be kaput. Spike’s hardware had been a prototype, after all, and the Initiative had likely never expected their experiment to be running for as long as it had. The fact that it was just her who was now exempt had been an unexpected blow.

“They brought me back wrong,” she’d whispered later that night, when Spike had tested out the chip against strangers with a simple pinch test, and hissed in pain with each attempt.

“You were in heaven. You were a fucking  _angel_ ,” Spike had snarled vehemently. “That’s bound to leave a mark.”

Was that really what she'd been? She had no memory of that—not of feathers or wings. Just light and peace and done-ness.

Buffy continued staring up at the marble wings of the statue as Spike awaited her reply tonight. Did she need it to hurt? Earlier, she would’ve said yes without hesitation, but the night and Spike and her first orgasm had bled away some of the numbness.

“I don’t need it right now,” she whispered finally. “Just… love me.”

Spike exhaled shakily as his cock pushed fully into her—excruciatingly, perfectly slow. “Oh, Slayer. You know I can’t do anything else.”

She met his eyes at last, watching pleasure fill his face as he moved in her. “Tell me.”

“I love you,” he whispered, his hands sliding up to tease her nipples through her shirt. “I love you.” He twisted his hips and smiled as she gasped. “I love you.”

 

***

 

It was almost dawn by the time Buffy made her way back home, finally feeling like she could face the day and the barrage of other people’s emotions that the light would bring. At least she had time for a shower before the onslaught.

 _Or not_ , she revised as she slipped through the front door to find Giles sitting at the dining room table, cup of tea in hand. His head snapped up as she entered, his expression weary and relieved.

“Buffy.”

She took in his unusually disheveled appearance. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Giles cleared his throat, self-consciously patting down his hair. “Ah… no. I can’t say I felt the inclination.” His gaze sharpened on her. “But I imagine you didn’t either.”

Terror welled in her with nauseous force at his carefully neutral tone. She needed more time—time for everything, but especially to find the words to defend what she had with Spike, as she had no doubt that was what everyone cared about most. “I can’t do this yet.”

Giles stood, his jaw setting decisively. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I must insist.” His expression turned embarrassed. “I fear I’m going to lose my nerve if this gets put off.”

“Nerves are overrated,” Buffy said quickly. She tried for a confident smile, though she had no idea if she succeeded. “Completely passé. Being nerveless, that’s the new thing.”

Giles’s expression shifted to amused exasperation. “Be that as it may.” He gestured toward the seat next to him.

“Fine.” Buffy sighed and joined him, dread pooling in her stomach. She braced her hands on the top of the table. “Just say it.”

Giles cleared his throat again and sat down, his gaze firmly situated on his teacup. “I am a confirmed bachelor,” he started, and Buffy frowned at the odd topic choice. “No wife or children to speak of, as you well know. And yet—though I am loath to credit the prat with anything nearing insight—Quentin pegged me exactly during your Cruciamentum. I…” His voice trailed off and he straightened, as if trying to convince himself to continue speaking through sheer force of will. He met Buffy’s anxious gaze with a strained smile. “Buffy, I love you as if you were my own child. A circumstance that has certainly been ill-received by the Council. And is, in general, very ill-advised, since it has meant that your deaths have been no less than the act of losing a daughter.”

Dread turned to a confused swell of love and guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Giles waved her words away, his voice thick with grief and his eyes alight with tears. “To have you here again was an almost incomprehensible miracle. A light returned to my life. But it remains that Sunnydale is tainted by more loss than I care to measure, as it must be for you. And I don’t believe that will ever change.”

Buffy’s heart dropped to her knees at the familiar cadence of resignation. Oh, so it was  _this_  conversation. The  _I can't do this anymore, Buffy_  conversation. How many men did that make now?

“You want to leave,” she said numbly.

Giles blinked at her. “Leave?” His expression turned aghast. “Oh good lord, is that where you think I was…” He hesitated a moment then shifted in his chair and wrapped her in a tight embrace. Buffy was still stiff, stunned and unsure, when he withdrew after a moment, looking equally uncomfortable. “No, that is not it at all. Even if I weren’t… that is, I’m still your Watcher.” He paused a moment, visibly collecting himself. “What I am trying to say—albeit incredibly poorly, it appears—is that I assumed renewed life was a desired outcome for you. I never dared imagine Willow would…” Giles’s mien darkened. “Regardless, I hazard the horror I feel being here is only a shade of what you’re experiencing. And I wish to propose that perhaps… perhaps we might try and muddle through it together.” He offered her a shaky, apologetic smile. “I hope that made some semblance of sense, as I don’t expect I can bring myself to repeat it.”

“It made… yes,” Buffy breathed with a helpless, hysterical laugh. Giles wasn’t leaving her. “Completely with the sense-making. How should we… I mean, did you have something in mind for the muddling?”

“Ah. Yes. With the very eager Social Services harridans breathing down your neck, I thought I might see if you could be convinced to turn over guardianship of Dawn to me. And since I am still in need of a new permanent residence, it would make sense for me to settle here, where I would of course assist with the mortgage, and consequently lessen your financial burden.”

“You want to move in?”

Giles flushed. “I realize this is entirely presumptuous.”

Buffy’s mind whirled. “No, that sounds….  _amazing_ , but I don’t– I mean, there’s nowhere for you to sleep right now except the couch. I guess we could fix up the basement for a room?”

Giles pursed his lips, looking distinctly Ripper-ish. “Space will not be an issue. Willow and I conducted a lengthy conversation following Sweet’s departure.”

“You did?”

“Willow and Tara have agreed to take an extended holiday in Devon.” His mouth quirked into a mordant smile. “Many years ago, the coven there was the one to bring me back from my reckless lifestyle. I have great faith that they can do the same for Willow.”

“And she’s… okay with that?”

Giles sighed, staring down into his tea. “She’s not pleased, but I have impressed upon her the necessity of it. And Tara agreeing to join her went quite a way in smoothing some of the harder realities.” He winced. “You have my sincerest apologies, Buffy. I should have paid attention… I should have seen how out of control she had become. But I fear I was a bit beyond caring after Glory.” There was a pause, then a hesitant, “Would you have ever told us where you were if not for Sweet’s spell?”

“No,” Buffy said quietly. “Never.”

“I suspected as much.” Giles regarded her narrowly. “And yet, Spike already knew, didn’t he?”

Buffy swallowed down her anxiety and straightened her shoulders. “He did.”

As expected, the admission turned Giles flustered as he struggled to broach the topic he was unsubtly reaching toward. “And he… has been helping you?”

“He has.” Buffy hesitated, then added, “He helps keep the nightmares away.”

A frown drew down Giles’s brow. “Nightmares?”

“About being torn out of heaven. Waking up in my grave. Everywhere in between.”

Giles paled. “Well, I am glad for that then. Though I don’t see how this is to end well.”

A humorless smile curved Buffy’s lips. “Spike said—well,  _sang_ —the exact same thing this morning.”

“Really? I suppose I must commend him for his foresight.”

Sudden annoyance made her voice sharp. “Or you both can stop assuming Buffy plus relationship equals tragedy. I’ve had enough of that in my life, thanks. Aren’t I due for like one good love situation?”

Giles stared at her. “… Love? Do you mean to say that you…”

Oh god. She couldn’t be in love. Not when just getting through everyday life was a challenge. No, it couldn't be love.

“We’re not even dating,” Buffy said weakly, uncertainly.

Giles heaved a heavy breath and muttered something at the ceiling that sounded suspiciously like  _good lord_  before leveling his gaze back to her. “But you’re still together. As”—he winced—“lovers and, as you’ve previously stated, friends.” At her hesitant nod, he continued exasperatedly, “Then what the bloody hell does dating have to do with anything?”

Buffy shrugged uneasily. “Because if I don’t even have the emotional energy to date, how can I have it to love someone?” She shook her head. “Angel called last month and wanted to see me. Angel, the big love of my life. And I couldn’t even... I didn’t even want to be on the phone with him, Giles.”

Giles snorted into his teacup, then covered his hand over his mouth as laughter escaped.

“It’s not funny!”

He choked down his mirth with considerable effort. “For god’s sake, Buffy, not wanting to talk to your ex isn’t a sign of stunted emotion, it’s a sign of growth. That part of your life is over. It’s perfectly normal.”

“Oh.” A weight fell from her heart that she hadn’t even realized was there. “Wow, that must be the first time something in my love life has qualified as normal.”

“It was bound to happen at some point,” Giles said dryly. He took another sip of tea. “About Spike then…”

“I’m not sure I even know what love is supposed to be anymore.”

Giles’s eyes turned distant, lost in memory. It wasn’t hard to guess who over. “Well, in my experience, it’s wanting to surround yourself in another person. Wanting to share your trials and victories with them, and the silly nuances of life. Wanting to please them, and feeling inordinately pleased by them. Feeling as if you can be yourself, and by virtue of experience with them, somehow better, fuller. More alive.”

Oh god, when he put it like that…

Buffy exhaled a shaky breath. “I think I'm in love with Spike."

Giles rose from the table. “In that case, I shall need something stronger than tea.”

“Mom’s stash of rum is still in the back of the pantry.”

“Excellent.”


	8. When the Floods Roll Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic came a very long way from its originally intended one-shot existence, and it's been a pleasure to explore this kinder world with you all. Thank you all bunches for following along and offering your marvelous support and thoughts. I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

“I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back,” Buffy murmured, the memory tripping unexpectedly forward as she watched her protectee for the night—a journeyman named Joe—kneel in the middle of the maintenance room, his jeans soaked through as he repaired a broken water line. Water swirled down a drain in the middle of the floor and—with the water shut off—none was following after.

Joe glanced over at her, and the blue gills lining his throat fluttered with the motion. “What’s that, Slayer?”

“Oh, nothing.” She shrugged. “Just something from a dream I had once when the very first Slayer tried to kill all my friends.”

Joe grunted and went back to messing with the piping. He was apparently a guy of the unshakeable variety—no doubt why Greg picked him for the job.

They were on the first floor of the Sunnydale Natural History Museum—a locale that Greg had been hesitant to have any of his employees go to, even with a Slayer escort.

“Millards Plumbing across town lost an entire team there last year,” he’d said anxiously.

Buffy just smiled brightly. “No worries, I’ll bring the extra pointy weapons.”

Still, even with Buffy in attendance, Greg was likely right to be wary—though she wasn’t about to worry him further by saying that. This was the building that had hosted Xander’s man-eating mummy girlfriend and the statue of Acathla. In the same year, no less. And then the Scoobies had sort of forgotten about the place, which seemed majorly unwise in retrospect. Buffy made a mental note to have Giles do some bookish digging around about the museum later. And maybe she’d grab Spike for a thorough, off-hours building inspection sometime soon. He’d enjoy the bout of breaking and entering, and trying to screw her in every dark corner like the somewhat evil fiend he still was. The evil fiend she was now in love with.

The thought had become more certain—and slightly less terrifying—since her revelationary conversation with Giles three weeks ago, but it hadn’t gone any further than that. Giles had done his British repression thing where he hadn’t mentioned it again after drinking half of mom’s remaining rum, though he’d become more patient and restrained in Spike’s presence (to the vampire’s clear bafflement).

For her part, Buffy spent the week post-confession trying to convince herself that she was mistaken about her emotional state, which culminated in a disastrously impulsive trip to the hairdressers and having her hair chopped up to her shoulders.

She'd been standing on the sidewalk outside the salon when she realized her ‘new perspective on life’ haircut just looked like ‘badly highlighted mom cut.’ And then everything hit her again—mom’s death, this new life she hadn’t wanted, all the responsibility of caring for Dawn even with Giles’s miraculous help, and the fact that she was very possibly in love with yet another vampire.

Spike found her sobbing in her room after sunset, and she’d ineffectively thrown a pillow in his direction. “Go away! I’m hideous!”

He hadn’t listened, of course, instead worming his way onto the bed beside her and running long fingers through her hatefully short locks. “All this over a bit of hair? Christ, Buffy, you’re just as gorgeous as you were yesterday.”

She glared at him through what were assuredly unattractively puffy eyes. “Liar.”

That prompted an admiring laugh and a solid, hungry kiss. “Trust me, you couldn’t look ugly if you tried, pet. Hell, you’d still be a hot number bald.”

Buffy tugged on the remains of her hair, a regretful pout curving down her mouth. “Don’t tempt me. At this point, a clean slate might be my best option. They can call me ‘Bald Buffy’, and all the demons will point and giggle when I go to slay them.”

“Then I’ll strangle each and every one of them with their own innards.” Spike shook his head at her, adoration in his eyes and lust in his touch as he slid his hands up under her skirt. “You insane chit.”

That was the night she resigned herself to the fact that Spike wasn’t the only one full speed ahead on the love train.

And god, having sex in a dark corner of the museum sounded really, really good right about now. Way better than standing here for another hour while she watched the repair of House Flood 2.0: Commercial Building Rendition. But since Spike was nowhere nearby, potential violence would have to do.

“Joe, I’m going to do a quick round, okay? Check for lurking bad guys.”

That earned her another expressive grunt that she took for agreement, so she set off down the dark hall, careful to avoid the edges of flashlight that denoted Rusty the security guard’s chosen path. Rusty was well aware of the midnight plumbing repairs taking place and he hadn’t batted an eye at Joe’s nictitating membrane, but Buffy doubted he’d be as accepting of the axe swinging freely by her side.

Everything was quiet through the South American and dinosaur exhibits, but there was a scuffle and the sound of hissed voices near the rare gems room. A room which, according to the poster on the door, currently hosted the world's fifth largest (and probably fifth most expensive) diamond in the world. Huh. First demons were robbing banks and now museums? Was the demon world experiencing a recession or something?

Buffy slid into the room, axe raised, and winced as a girlish scream erupted.

“Abort! Abort!”

“Oh my god, it’s the Slayer!”

“Will you two shut up!”

Buffy stared at the three teenage boys in the center of the room. They stared back at her.

“What the...” She squinted. “ _Jonathan_?”

Jonathan gave her a small, uncomfortable wave. “Uh, hi, Buffy.”

“Um, hi.” Her amusement fled into distaste as she stared at the next guy. “Warren. Got bored making sexbots?”

He sneered at her. “My robot was twice the woman you are.”

The third guy—some lanky, sandy-haired teenager dressed like he was in  _Mission Impossible_ —gave a high-pitched laugh, with an over-eager “Good one, Warren,” that quickly turned to nervous contrition when Buffy turned her attention to him.

“Do I know you?”

“Um, I’m Andrew Wells. Tucker’s brother?”

“Who?”

“You know, the guy who released the hell hounds at Sunnydale High’s prom?”

“Oh.” Buffy slowly lowered her axe, and the trio of guys all followed the motion apprehensively. “Mkay. So, I’m going to assume based on your outfits and the hole in the empty gem case behind you that you weren’t out on a late night field trip.”

Warren gave her a nasty smile. “Oh, we were on a field trip all right.” He shot the two other guys a meaningful look and jerked his head toward the duffel bag Tucker’s brother was holding. “The _freeze ray_ field trip.”

Buffy raised incredulous brows. “Wow, is that your idea of subtlety? Because I’ve met skanky hell gods with a lighter touch.” She rolled her eyes when the two guys started scrambling for the duffel contents. “Okay, seriously, if you pull something gun-like out of there, I’m throwing this axe and the continued possession of your vital limbs is not guaranteed.”

Jonathan and Tucker’s brother froze. Jonathan stepped away from the bag, hands shooting up in surrender.

Warren shoved him with a hissed, “What are you doing?”

“Keeping my vital limbs,” Jonathan said stubbornly. “Look, you didn’t go to school with Buffy, I did. I’ve seen her aim.”

Buffy smiled and motioned for the bag. “Hand it over, hound boy.”

Tucker’s brother pouted and clutched it to his chest. “That was my brother. I summoned the demons that came to your work!”

All the weird encounters from the last couple months suddenly fell into place. “It’s been  _you three_ messing with me? Oh, you guys are so toast.” She glared daggers at Tucker’s brother. “Give. Me. The. Bag.”

He made a strangled squeaking noise and nearly tripped over his feet handing it over, to Warren’s clear ire as he threw up his hands. “You’re both useless. Am I the only one with a brain in this group? Why did I even team up with you idiots?!”

Jonathan ignored Warren’s ranting and eyed her warily. “What are you going to do with us?”

Buffy hefted her axe again, fixing them with a saccharine smile. “I’m not going to do anything with you. Pretty soon, our nice museum security guard is going to come by and then I’m handing you off to the correct people for this stunt.” 

Tucker’s brother scrunched up his nose. “Huh?”

Warren scowled. “She’s turning us into the police, moron.”

Buffy gave him another sweet smile, letting it widen as a flashlight beamed in her direction. “Aww, you really are the brains of the operation, Warren. And hey, chin up, I bet your sexbot program will be really popular in prison.”

 

***

  

“Well, I solved the mystery of Buffy’s longest day of work ever. And pretty much every other lame weirdness from this fall.”

Giles looked up from the scroll he’d been frowning at in the living room desk chair. It was quickly becoming a staple of what made up home nowadays; there was Dawn blaring music, Spike lounging in her bed, and Giles frowning at scrolls.

“Oh?”

“You remember Jonathan from Sunnydale High?”

Giles blinked at her. “You mean the boy who gave you the parasol at prom? The one who cast that heinous augmentation spell?”

“That’s him.”

Giles shuddered. “I still have nightmares over what little I remember of that bloody swimsuit calendar.” He looked back up at her again, puzzled. “He was the one tormenting you?”

“One of. Seems to have fallen in with a bad crowd. He’s now best buds with our resident hellmouth robot maker, Warren. And with the younger brother of the guy responsible for the prom hell hounds.”

Giles pursed his lips. “And where are these hooligans now?”

“Jail.”

“Oh. Well, splendid then.” His expression turned quizzical again. “How exactly did you come across the three of them tonight?”

Buffy winced and sank into the couch. “About that. Giles, I have to admit something."

"Yes?"

"The plumbing company I work for? It's demon owned and operated. But they're good demons!” Buffy hesitated, then added, “And sometimes I use my Slayer-y powers to keep their journeymen safe when they have to fix things around more dangerous parts of the hellmouth. Which is where I was tonight—protecting Joe. That’s one of the guys on the crew.”

“I see.” Instead of looking appalled or disappointed as she was braced for, Giles just looked thoughtful. “This company, is it owned by that loose-skinned demon who helped fix the basement pipes here?”

“Um. Yeah. Greg.”

“Ah. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I kind of thought you’d freak.” She eyed him suspiciously. “In fact, I’m expecting it any moment. Is your freakage on a time delay?”

Giles’s lips quirked. “No. I’m sorry to disappoint, but no  _freakage_  is forthcoming.”

“Oh.” Buffy nibbled her bottom lip. “Really?”

“Really. It’s no small stretch to imagine that many of Sunnydale’s businesses are demonically associated. And such businesses would know enough to appreciate your unique set of skills.” He carefully rolled up the scroll he’d been reading and tied it with a ribbon, clearing his throat and not looking at her. “So, will you be staying here tonight?”

Amusement bubbled up in her chest. “You asked that so neutrally. I’m proud.”

Giles’s mouth drew a crooked line. “I’m trying.”

“Thank you.” Buffy’s eyes flitted to the ceiling with affectionate surety. “If I had to guess, I’d say there’s already a vampire in my bed waiting for me.”

Giles winced and rose from his chair. “In that case, I shall be off to my own bed. Please do be mindful of the thin walls.”

 

***

 

She gave Giles a ten-minute head start up the stairs. Curling up more firmly on the couch, she listened to the small sounds of her Watcher puttering around with his nightly routine before settling into his room—the space that had originally been Buffy’s room. Giles had insisted she take her mom’s old room once Willow and Tara were gone.

It was weird to have the witches gone, but it was a guilty relief after the awkwardness of the pre-gone part. Buffy hadn’t known how to approach any of her friends in the days after her spell-induced confession, and they’d sort of just stared at each other from across the Magic Box until Anya straightened her shoulders and marched across the room to give Buffy a quick, perfunctory hug.

“This awkward tension is making me very uncomfortable and I would like it to end. Buffy, I am sorry for having had a hand in ripping you from eternal rest. I understand that you may feel vengeful toward us now—and rightfully so—but I believe apologies are still traditional and expected.”

Willow burst into tears at that, nearly falling over with sobs. Tara looked like the only thing keeping her upright. “Oh god, Buffy, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Xander nodded, hands clenching and face miserable. “We all are.”

“Sorry doesn’t change what you guys did!” Dawn snapped from the end of the table, echoing what Buffy knew were also Spike’s sentiments. He’d made himself scarce after hearing about the Scooby meeting that day. For better or worse, this was a confrontation Buffy had to handle on her own.

“No, it doesn’t,” Buffy agreed shakily, and Willow sobbed harder. “But we’ve all done some not-so-great stuff. The fact is that I'm here now, and I just have to make the best of it. And that scenario definitely includes having you guys in my life still."

Xander sighed. “But why does it have to include  _Spike_?”

The slam of a heavy tome against the counter startled them all, and they turned to where Giles was standing stiffly by the register.

“I believe,” he said tightly, “that where Buffy chooses to seek her solace is none of your concern. And you would do her a great disservice by trying to tear down one of her current few sources of joy.” He leveled Xander with a look that would've made Angelus squirm. “Do I make myself clear?”

Xander flushed, looking abashed and guilty. “Sorry, Buffster. Whatever makes you happy.”

And that had been the end of that.

Three days later, Willow and Tara were gone, their extra possessions put into storage in the basement, and Giles had moved in and started the process of obtaining legal guardianship of Dawn using forged papers that declared him to be a distant uncle from mom’s side of the family.

Home was feeling homey in a way it hadn't felt since mom's death.

Deciding she’d waited long enough on the couch, Buffy finally made her way up the stairs and into her dark room, the back of her neck prickling with the warning of vampire. She shut and locked the door, not bothering to turn on the light.

“You know, there might be a night when I want my bed to myself.”

There was a small shuffle of covers, then the edge of a smirk flashed in her direction. “Might be. But not tonight.”

“No, not tonight,” Buffy agreed with an answering smile, pulling off her shirt and tossing it to the side. “Are you naked over there?”

“And hard.”

Desire rushed down her spine, but she forced herself to maintain her steady pace of undress. “When aren’t you?”

“Around you? Bloody well never.” Spike's voice edged into a growl as her bra dropped to the carpet. “Get over here.”

“I’m still getting undressed.” She shimmied out of her pants with an unnecessary amount of hip swishing.

“You’re a fucking tease, is what you are.”

“You love it.”

Spike’s laugh was raspy and delighted. “Yeah, I do.”

Buffy finally slid out of her panties and crawled onto the bed, smiling when she found herself immediately tugged back against Spike’s cool frame, his erection pressing insistently against her ass.

“I thought of you tonight,” she said as she twisted in his arms so that she could see him better.

“Oh?”

“Mhm. When I had to go to the museum. I started finding all the places we could probably screw in it.”

Spike’s tongue snaked behind his teeth with a leer. “Why, Slayer, you naughty girl.”

“It’s all your fault. You’ve corrupted me.”

He pressed a hard kiss to her neck, the edges of his fangs tracing against her skin, a hairsbreadth from nicking her. “Mmm, gotta get my evil in somehow.”

“You fiend.”

“And don’t you forget it," he growled, then kissed her—hard, languorous, heady with love and desire. Heat rose everywhere, like a hearth spurred to life.

Buffy wasn’t sure of the exact day, but at some point, Spike’s touch had stopped being a sole flame flickering in a flood. Now it fanned flames that lay slowly smoldering all on their own—his caresses adding enough energy to turn them bright and scorching and perfectly sweet.

“Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“I love you.”

He froze, looking at her as if he was afraid to believe his ears. “You…”

Buffy shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, though she couldn't quite keep the tremble from her voice. “Love you.”

He continued to stare, his expression warring between elation, hope, and disbelief. "When did you decide that, then?”

“Oh, weeks ago.” She brushed fingertips across Spike's cheekbones and his eyes fluttered shut with a groan. “But I wasn’t ready to say it until now.”

His eyes opened again, his lips quirking and his eyes bright with emotion. “Now is brilliant.”

“I figured you’d think so. I'm all about the now.” She laughed softly. “I had a Slayer dream a couple years ago that I just thought of again today. Like ‘the very first Slayer made a murderous appearance’ kind of dream.”

“Filled with lots of cryptic mumbo jumbo, was it?”

“Oh, tons. With a bonus random cheese guy. I don’t really remember most of the cryptic talk, but I remember telling the First Slayer that I wasn’t like her—that I didn’t 'sleep on a bed of bones'.”

“More to you than death,” Spike murmured.

“Loads more,” Buffy agreed softly. “Or, at least, I thought so at the time. But then everything happened with mom and Glory the next year and I got it, how she felt. And waking up again... well, you know how that's been."

“I know, pet.” Spike’s arms tightened around her waist. "So, that 'now' you mentioned—feeling any different?"

Fire flickered deep in her veins, electric and coursing. “I'm feeling like I'm going to find a much softer bed."

Spike grinned. "All the better to ravish you in."

"That was absolutely the idea." 


End file.
